Rememberin' a Friend

I remember our Senior year in high school, a bunch of us were takin' Journalism from Mrs. Petrey. Or Mrs. Goetz. Or Miss Goetz. Hell, or maybe it was Miss Petrey. It was this or Senior English with Mrs. shaw. I believe I was the only one in our Senior Class that had the distinction of takin' both classes. (Mrs. Bell flunked my school-skippin', smart-alec ass Sophomore year...)

Anyway, as I remember it, you usually copied somethin' outta the newspaper in the Library once a week, then we would all slap together the school paper. Biggest goof off class I ever had in high school. (Thanks, Violet!. One mornin' before class, early in the year, Teresa and me were feelin' particularly "inspired", and decided we would interview one of the teachers that was new to Lincoln that year. Can't remember his name, or even what classes he taught. He was a nice fella- probably wasn't more than thirty years old, as best as I can recall, but he entertained us and answered our questions: Wife? Kids? College? That kinda stuff.

Then Teresa and me sat in the Library and spun this poor guy's stuff into foolishness as funny as we thought we could get away with. We laughed our heads off, gettin' called down several times, which, of course, only served to make us worse. I remember that when we were done with it, we were extremely pleased with the product. We were really pushin' the envelope , Teresa and me.

I can't recall any of the stuff that we thought was so damn funny from that article, save for one thing. We had asked Mr. New Guy what his hobbies were, and he answered "Keeping Apis Mellifera." Boy, did our eyes light up. He went on to explain that Apis Mellifera was Latin for Honey Bees, (or, more precisely, bees that bear honey.) We used that in our article, just as he had told us, including his explanation about what Apis Mellifera meant, which we followed, in parentheses, with "but, we have our doubts..." I laughed 'till my gut ached. I kept copies of those papers for several years, but I haven't run across them in my junk in a long, long time.

A buncha runnin' around with Teresa. Me and her and other good friends. And a whole lotta just actin' silly and laughin'. Just enjoyin' bein' around each other.

Funny, the things that take up residence in your head, stayin' still, until somethin' happens that causes 'em to come floodin' back, good and bad.

Sure gonna miss that girl. Already am...

Sleeper/Catcher

As I drift between the Ether and the Gutter
Where Time has smoothed Despair to Sweet Sadness
You are always there
Vapor of Imagination
Shadow of a Memory
Silently offering your Melancholy Comfort
Whenever I face you
Then I turn away and continue on
My Disintegrating Journey

shAMe

Into Darkness I slide
For the Unendin' Ride
Exhaustion pushes me down
Spread paper thin
As the Blackness seeps in
Sportin' my Guilt like a Crown

Sadness waits there
And Pain fouls the air
I want out but my Conscience won't let me
The Murder of Hope
The Staggerin' Scope
Makin' odds on what no one will bet me

Strangers surround me
Ugliness hounds me
Smothered by Thoughts that just can't be
With Memory my Curse
Bad becomes Worse
When I'm Sleepin' the Sleep of the Guilty

My Conscience is scarred
The windows are barred
All the Children are ragged and filthy
Inescapable Dread
The Lost and the Dead
Sleepin' the Sleep of the Guilty

Awake in a sweat
Wrapped up in Regret
With the fear of what was and what will be
Hide from the Mistake
Just by stayin' awake
Stop Sleepin' the Sleep of the Guilty

A little bit a Garage Art...

"SCREWED"

An Immodest Proposal (with apologies to Jonathan Swift and Pol Pot)

Ya know, all this Taxes/Entitlements/Fiscal Cliff talk has got me to thinkin'...

If we really want to solve these complicated issues, then we gotta get a clearly defined picture of exactly what, or who, is the Enemy. What, or who, stands in the way of our struggle to address all the Monumental Issues currently facin' this Great Country of Ours.

First, let's go over a few of the things that seem to be gettin' a lot of the attention lately:

The National Debt. Easy. This can best be described as more Money goin' out than comin' in. I think we can all agree on that one. Cut and dried. Movin' on...

Next, how about the Disparity Between the Rich and the Poor? That doesn't look good at all. This is supposed to be the Land of Opportunity. A real embarrassment before the entire Global Community, and the Gap has been gettin' wider for decades. The Numbers bear this one out. Kinda tough to dispute. Again, didn't have to flip over no rock to see this one, either.

Then, there's this Entitlement Thing. Just because you worked hard all your life doesn't mean that you automatically deserve to live out your last remainin' years in Relative Comfort. Or Dignity. Not if the Stockholders decide that conditions dictate that your Retirement Fund be raided- wait, no- "requisitioned" for the Benefit of the Company as a Whole. Yeah. "Requisitioned". Likin' that. Okay, things might be gettin' a little muddy now. Givin' ya that...

And, the final point I would like to touch on? Social Programs designed to assist Those in Need. Or, as our grandparents would have called it- Relief. Relief? Yeah. As in Rich or Poor. Right or Wrong. Good or Bad. Black or White. (White or Whiter?) More or Less. Healthy or Stricken. Belch or Fart.

So, now that we've defined these points, let's put a face on 'em. (We gotta be able to see the whites of their eyes, right?)

Now, the Money Thing: Clearly this cannot be the fault of the Rich, or even the Fairly Well-Off. They have plenty of excess cash and ain't afraid to use it. (Not unlike a Junky with a Gun in a Liquor Store.) These are the folks that keep the Skids of Commerce greased. And I ain't talkin' about buyin' a new grocery-getter every few years or school clothes for your kid in August. I'm talkin' Big Ticket Items- Brand Name Shit, like Cadillac and Mercedes, Gucci and Armani. Beach Houses in Malibu and Mansions in Bel-Air. All the stuff and places we've all read about, or have at least seen on TV. Some serious coin bein' dropped here, so they must be part of the Solution, right? Sure...

This means the Problem has gotta lie with the Have-Nots. The Indigent, the Down-Trodden, the Poor Planners, the People with the Really Bad Luck. The Ugly Ones. Those types. These are the Albatross around the Neck of the Well-To-Do. Ya know what? Let's throw in the Elderly. And the Handicapped. And the Sickly. All Users and Takers, incapable or unwillin' to pull their own weight. How can the Affluent be expected to maintain their Elevated Standard of Livin' and their Superior Buyin' Power if they're asked to help with the Less Fortunate? How fair is that? (Remember: We've entrusted this small group of Money-Changers with the Fiscal Well-Being of our Entire Nation.) Just because others are born into our Pseudo-Caste System somewhere near the Bottom does not mean they are automatically entitled to some kind of Help. This is America. The Land of the Free Market and the Home of the Brave Investors. Pull your socks up and take some Responsibility. (Oh, you ain't got socks? Or even shoes? Not my problem...)

And this brings us to the second and third points- Entitlements and the Disparity of Wealth. Again, why should the "Accident of Birth" for Many become the Responsibility of the Few? One percent interest on passbook savings is simply the Market doin' what it does. Not necessarily what it used to do or was designed to do, but what it's doin' right now. Fact of life. Don't blame the Banks, or the Insurance Companies, or the Corporations. After all- they're people, too. (See "Citizens United v. Federal Election Committee", 2010.)

Nor is it the fault of our Congressmen or Representatives that One Percent of Nothin' equals Nothin'. They have no experience with Nothin'. (Remember: They are members of the Haves. The concept of "Naught" is foreign to them. Unless it's in the "Tax Due" column.) This is Math in its purest form. So what if the Upper Echelon happens to have most of the Money and most of the Control? These people work hard every day to hold onto their Money and the Money their Money is makin'. Tax shelters, blind trusts, offshore accounts, write-offs, business losses, capital gains , ponzi, pyramid- this is not an easy task. Hell, it's almost frightenin'. I don't know what any of that shit means! It's a wonder these folks ain't exhausted just from the keepin' up of all that Green! As for the Dissatisfied Masses? Human Nature. People with Less want More. (Of course, it would also appear that People with More want More.) And let's face it: it doesn't matter what you're entitled to if it's no longer there. Where'd it go? A moot point, because even if I tell ya, it won't change the fact that it's still gone. (If a tree falls in the forest...? Hell, I don't know...)

Now- Social Programs. How in the Hell did our Government ever get in the business of helpin' people? (Please disregard the Mother of Exiles. She is figuratively half-buried on a beach somewhere in the Not-Too-Distant Future, where the Great Apes hold Sway and Dominion over Man.) This is where the majority of the Leeches are hidin'- the Smooth, Unblemished Underbelly of Democracy. Barnacles, warts, fungi. Lesions. To say that they deserve attention is just such a hard sell to those devoid of a Social Conscience. Thanks to television, the Top Tier sees more images of the Starvin' and the Destitute from the opposite hemisphere than they do our own. Is it reasonable to expect compassion from a group that has no real contact outside their own Shiny Circle? 'Course not. That would be tantamount to feelin' concern for a cartoon dog. Not part of their Reality. An Emotional and Socio-Economical "Closed Shop". The Brotherhood of the One Percent.

Okay. A fairly concise profile of the Enemy has been established. Now, the really excitin' part all y'all been waitin' for. Let's discuss Plans of Action! (Surely, ya didn't think this was gonna be just some Piss and Moan with no Suggestions...? Not my style.)

Keepin' top of mind an Economy of Effort and Expenditure, (after all, this is ultimately about Money, right?) we must locate the greatest concentrations of the Enemy... Hold it. Let's use a different term. Undesirables? Naw, too Elitist. Non-Contributors! Yep, the Non-Contributors! That'll work. (Did ya catch that one?)... the greatest concentrations of the "Non-Contributors", thus enablin' us to operate efficiently and effectively.

For starters- Public Housing. This is potentially the single largest collection of Economic Drag that can be pinpointed to specific geographic areas. (Due to previously defined Modes of Societal Function, most logistical concerns regardin' this have already been addressed. Time saver.) On and beyond this, things become more complicated, less defined. We begin to encounter the Small Tribes. The Nomadic. The Loners. The Hidden. These will be among the last to be ferreted out. But, they may prove to be the groups that are most easily addressed. They will lack Strength in Numbers, Cohesive Defense. Sympathy. Support. From Public Housing we can then move on to the homeless shelters, soup kitchens, free health clinics. These kinds of places, by their very nature, attract the Non-Contributors. Anywhere they can get somethin' for nothin'.

History has shown us that Sweepin' Change can only be accomplished with Bold Steps, Broad Strokes. Decisive Action. But these will be things that those of Weak Constitution may shy away from. Nonetheless, the Consensus has been reached and the Path is clear. It's Broken Eggs/Omelet Time.

Many options are available to the Resourceful. Again, let's look to the successes of the Past to guide our Future. What will be as to our new Non-Contributors what Whiskey and Smallpox were to the Red Savages our Forefathers first faced when they bravely settled this Great Land? Experience and Superior Knowledge will serve us well here, as we assemble our Modern Arsenal.(And a little Callousness and Brutality couldn't hurt... Am I right? Huh? Huh?) Our Weapons of Today must be designed specifically to take full advantage of the Weaknesses of our Target. Anything that can be used to Amplify Despair, Crush the Spirit. These will be the tools that allow us to move the Agenda forward while keepin' our hands figuratively clean. Narcotics will be our New Whiskey. Poverty will act as our Smallpox of Today. Oppression will serve as the Theater where we shall Flex and Subdue. Modify. Correct.

Sub-Standard and Unaffordable Health Care will slowly eradicate a large number of this group. Privatization of the Health Care Industry will ensure that those that cannot afford it will simply no longer receive it. This will keep For Profit Providers in the black. No longer should it be unethical to turn away the Sick or Injured. The System must be self-sustainin'. This is not to say that, initially, the current status quo cannot serve as part of the means to our end. Free vaccinations could be labeled as safeguards against tuberculosis, tetanus, even flu, but in reality can be an "inoculation" that will assist in the reduction of the Non-Contributors and their negative impact. For those without the means to pay, then "special" vaccinations could be administered to protect the Interests of the Greater Good. Perfect. It's free. They'll line up for it. It's in their nature. It's who they are.

Subsidized liquor prices in particular neighborhoods will ensure that all those overwhelmed by their Lot in Life and the despair it brings with it will have reasonable access to what they need to wreck their physical and emotional health, their relationships, their families. Sure, this will call for an initial investment, but this will be a new kind of Relief. A Relief that can ultimately bring a lastin' solution to the Problem(s). A Relief for the System that has had to bear this undue burden placed upon it and its Champions.

The turnin' of a blind eye by Law Enforcement to the Drug Trade in these same areas will help to supply the Non-Contributors with still more avenues of self-destruction. This should be looked upon as the natural progression of a situation. And this can be achieved by doin' less, not more. Modern Science may be able to assist in expandin' the selection put forth. There may even be opportunities for modest research in some instances. This will depend on how creative we allow ourselves to be. Yep- Better Livin' through Chemistry!

These things, if handled correctly, could be put in place discreetly, leavin', at most, a vague trail or Straw Men on which to heap Blame. But the real challenges, the things that will separate the Men from the Garbage, will be our willingness to step out of the Shadows. To operate openly in the Light of Day in Support of our Righteous Agenda. To promote Our Cause without concern for "others".

Extra care must be used in order to minimize the Collateral Damage. We must not allow our exuberance to cause hastily chosen weapons to endanger the Righteous. ( Let's not forget the research, and sometimes introduction, of what appeared to be perfectly selective weapons, such as the HIV Project (see Gao, F et al. (1999, 4th February) 'Origin of HIV-1 in the chimpanzee Pan troglodytes troglodytes', Nature 397(6718)), Post-Vietnam Heroin (see Higher and Higher: American Drug Use in Vietnam, http://www.library.vanderbilt.edu/central/Brush/American-drug-use-vietnam.htm), and many others (http://targetedindividualscanada.wordpress.com/tag/tuskegee-syphilis-study/.). Public Opinion and Propaganda Nightmares, all. We must move Decisively, but not Recklessly. The potential for insufficient control and cross-class pollination is too great with material that works on a strictly biological level, such as the ones cited above. As with so many Recipes for Success, Simplicity shall prove to be the Key.

However, as with any operation of this Scope and Magnitude, some Collateral Damage is inescapable. A fact of any conflict. Guilty of Support, and by Association. Sympathy for the Non-Contributors will place some in Harm's Way. (The likes of these would prove to not have the stomach for what has to be done, anyway. ) Still yet, their sacrifice must be recognized, their demise, in the right hands, a Golden Publicity Opportunity. They will not have died in vain, for these will be our Martyrs. Managed properly, they will become Our Symbols of What We All Would Have Chosen to Be, (had it been even remotely fiscally appropriate.) In their honor, we shall continue our Quest. The Grand Correction. The Cleansing. Steam tables will serve the Last Supper. Punch bowls shall be overflowin' with Terminal Kool-Aid. The "socially-medicinal" aspects of some of our most common poisons of the past will once again find Divine Purpose under the New Agenda.

As the body count rises, there will come a point in time when the Direction of Things will become clear to all that were not in "the Loop". It will then be time for the Great Reconstruction. The clutter of our current multi-class system and it's never-endin', continually-changin' sub-classes will finally be recreated, distilled and simplified, from the ground up, with reportionin' of Power, Wealth, Property, and Responsibility. It will be time for all to be made aware their New Position. With this Sea Change, three distinct, new castes shall arise.

First, the New Upper-Caste-
Those of this group will be the Overseers. They will hold the Wealth, the Property, the Power. All decisions will be made by those within this group. They will control all moneys in every form. All determinations of the distribution of commodities, duties, responsibilities, as well as any form of recognition, will be made at this level. All others will defer to this group when decisions are to be made. Members of this group have proven their Right to this Duty and Privilege. It has been evidenced by their ability to continue to amass Wealth and Power, while the Strengths and Positions of others slipped and faltered, helpless in the wake of a Changin' World. Weak. Impotent, regardless of their numbers.

The New Middle-Caste-
These will be the Implementers. This group will consist of the Skilled Professionals, such as those in the scientific fields, the health service industries, law enforcement, as well as managers, supervisors, business professionals. They will be the new center, vastly smaller than the previous middle class, primarily due to the absence of the Minions of Unskilled. (The Screw-Turners, the Line-Pickers, the Dock-Workers. The Factory Fodder: Those whose numbers had exploded over the past hundred years, siphonin' away far more than that of which they were deservin' or had ever earned. Creatin' an Unsustainable Quality of Life.) This streamlined, better-educated caste will be responsible for any logistics and support functions required by the Overseers, as well as the implementation off all new directives their Superiors may deem necessary.

Those that have displayed their above average, yet still menial, intelligence and proved their survivability (as well as their capacity to Know Fear and Accept Change) shall take their place among the Remainders. They shall be the new Workin' Class, the new Common Man. They will be great in number, but that number will be designated by the Overseers, and controlled by whatever means is necessary, lest we repeat the errors of the past. This will be where tightly-controlled, narrow Living Standards will need to be maintained. After only a few generations, memories of the Waste and Abandon of the Past shall be supplanted by the New Reality, the stark acceptance of knowing exactly who you are and where you belong. Removal of things such as Aspiration, Longing, Ambition, will allow all to accept their lot as a Fact of Life. In time, they will even come to embrace their Contribution. Possibly even develop a basic Sense of Pride.

Conscription will be used to ensure Appropriate Balance across all Stations and Aspects of Life for the Remainders. This shall also allow for a "flattenin'" of Expectations, a "thinnin'" of Hope. It can also be closely manipulated (by those with the skills) to suppress counter-productive emotions- Frustration, Dissatisfaction, Disappointment. Particularly Disappointment. This could conceivably come to include prospects such as Controlled Designated Life Span, (see "Logan's Run", MGM, 1976,) or, with sufficient strides in technology, the recyclin' of valuable human assets, (see "THX 1138", American Zoetrope, 1971 and "Soylent Green", MGM, 1973) or Regulated Conflicts, (see "Zardoz", John Boorman, 1974.)

Thusly, shall our Nation finally find its Deserved Greatness in this Brave New World. A World not based on the Outdated Concepts of Liberty, or Justice, or Compassion, or even Politics or Faith, but a World based on Commerce, Power, and Control.

Only then shall Man be positioned to Manage the Business of Man.

Fish

Happy Birthday, Dave Elliott

I was reminded a little while ago by his brother Dean, that today is Dave Elliott's birthday. I think Dave was around two or three years older than me, so I reckon that today woulda put 'em around fifty-four, fifty-five, somethin' like that. He has been gone for less than a year.

Work brought me to Louisville the Winter of 1980. I knew no one here, but quickly became friends with the folks at work. We were a small group, a few of us teenagers, the oldest ones were still under forty (with possibly one exception.) The telephony interconnect business was still relatively young and evolvin'. Our group worked hard and played hard.

After a couple years, the company needed another tech, and hired Glenn- a perfect addition to the group. Glenn was fresh out of the Army, and was around a year older than me. We were fast friends. He had a spot under the stairs at his dad and step-mother's place and, although I'm sure they loved 'em, I think they were lookin' toward his movin' out.

Glenn had a step-brother, Rick, who was still in high school, and he went to school with the youngest of three brothers that lived next door. Since my circle was small outside of work, I got to know Glenn's step-brother and a number of the people he went to school with, includin' the kid next door- Doug.

The lease was nearly up on the funky little apartment where I was livin', and I was never fond of apartment livin'- shared walls, my music too loud for others, their television or squawlin' kiids too loud for me, etcetera- so Glenn and I decided to find a house to rent. We made pretty good money for people our age, so splittin' the bills and rent should allow us to secure a fairly decent place, which we did- A great split-level walkout on a cul-de-sac.

Glenn's stereo was set up in the livin' room on the main floor, while I had my stuff set up in the family room, a floor below. We ran cable and tied them together in a master/slave kinda thing that allowed the same source to be used for both. Perfect party setup.

And that's somethin' we did with some regularity. On one particular occasion, Doug had showed up and brought his older brother along. I didn't know 'em. I think he had been down in Austin, Texas, or somethin'.

I had a fairly big vinyl collection, (of course, no one called it a vinyl collection- beside tape, records was all there was), a little of a whole lot of stuff and a whole lot of some stuff. So, a couple hours in, this guy comes up and asks "Hey Man, you sure do have bunch of records. Do you mind if I look through 'em?" "Absolutely not, Man. Pick somethin' out."

A little while later, the same guy comes up and says "Hey Man, you listen to Prine!"

"John Prine? Hell yeah, Man! Prine is the shit!"

"Man, you're the first person I've met around here that listens to Prine!"

And so the conversation goes on for about half an hour. This is Doug's big brother, Dave. The three Elliott brothers were all born and raised up North- Michigan, Illonois. Their folks had come down to Kentucky when their Dad's work, I'm thinkin' Anaconda, the wire and cable company, transferred him down. That night, Dave and I decided that the next time Prine came to town, the first one that heard about it would pick up tickets for the both of us. This became what Dave would from then forward refer to as "The Pact." We wouldn't have to wait long. Prine came to town just a few weeks later. I can't recall which of us bought the tickets for that one, but it would be the first of what would end up bein' literally hundreds of live music shows that we would take in together over the next thirty years.

Dave had seen Prine and Steve Goodman play at the Earl of Oldetown in Chicago, a place that was known as bein' a showcase for musicians like this. The Second Folk Wave. Dave was also a big fan of the Grateful Dead, which had brought him around (through projects like Old and In the Way) to Bluegrass musicians like Bill Monroe, J.D. Crowe, New Grass Revival, Tony Rice- folks like that. For me, my approach had been the opposite- my exposure had started at the other end, the Bluegrass end, of the spectrum. My Dad had introduced me to the Bluegrass music as a kid, and I had held on to that. Dave helped me realize that what I had considered to be disparate forms of music actually had a lot in common: a love and reverence for what I suppose you would call Roots Music.

Dave enlightened me to the ties between musicians like Muddy Waters and The Stones, Bill Monroe and Elvis Presley, Leadbelly and Bob Dylan. On occasion, I was able to contribute somethin' to our combined music knowledge and experience. I had always been a lover of a broad range of musical styles, but, hangin' out with Dave, I began to see it as not that extreme or disjointed a view after all. I came to see Music as more of a single entity. A common thread, albeit sometimes a thin one, tied so much of it together. My particular tastes and preferences no longer seemed so scrambled. And with this, came an even broader, more open-minded outlook. My love of that which I was already familiar deepened, and I grew to recognize and appreciate the less familiar- particularly Zydeco and Cajun, Texas Swing, and All Things Psychedelic.

Through the years, Dave and I would make multiple trips to the Telluride Bluegrass Music Festival in Colorado, (the first of which was hatched in his folks basement in the Winter of what I guess woulda been 1986-ish?), a dozen or so Dead shows, (I never made one without Dave there), countless other Bluegrass Festivals across Kentucky and Tennessee, hundreds of live music shows from concert halls to beer joints. Had to have seen Newgrass Revival play dozens and dozens of times in front of thousands at festivals, or hundreds in a farm field, or dozens in a beer joint in Bowling Green. We took in everything from Commander Cody to Ravi Shankar. We got tossed out of the Joe Clark Festival in Renfro Valley by the Kentucky Stare Police, saw Lonnie Mack in a joint on Main Street in Louisville so small that it took a week for my hearin' to recover, sat with our feet against the stage for the likes of Tony Rice, Peter Rowan, Los Lobos, Strength in Numbers, so close that you heard stage sound more than the house sound...

I learned a lot of other things from Dave, too. He contributed to my appreciation for the value of hard work- somethin' that my own family had instilled in me from an early age, not to mention countless things in regard to carpentry. And I ain't talkin' framin'. Or trim. I'm talkin' about all of it. From backin' up surveyor's stakes, diggin' footers, settin' grade stakes with a transit, pourin' concrete, to settin' the rain cap on a chimney. And everything, and I mean everything, in between. Not a week goes by that I don't use somethin' I learned from Dave.

And the most important thing I learned from Dave? This might be kinda hard to explain, but Dave made me realize that there wasn't anything that someone else did that I couldn't do. I may not be as good or as fast as someone who did it every day, but with patience and focus, I had a damn-good chance of doin' every bit as good a job as anyone. And if you got through it successfully once, then it was yours. Add it to the list of things that were no longer a mystery. If a friend or relative, or even a stranger should ask... "Yep. I can do that." Or, "Here's what you do," or "Here's what you're gonna need." And I feel a huge sense of pride and confidence when I can say, "I ain't never done it, but I'll bet we can figure it out."

I could go on forever about all the fun, the good times and the not so good, that I had the privilege of sharin' with Dave, but I wanted to get this posted before his birthday passed. Not sure why I hadn't done this before.

Love ya and miss ya, Daver. Every day.

Fish

Thanksgiving 2012

Over the past week or so, I have been spendin' most of my spare time over at my father-in-law's place in Clifton.
Clifton is an old neighborhood near downtown Louisville- old two and three -story houses. I'm guessin' most are gettin' close to a hundred years old. Some have been converted into apartments, with long sets of stairs and small landings zig-zaggin' along their sides, supplyin' entrance and egress to the less fortunate not on the first floor. Some are still single-family, housin' young couples who enjoy the urban vibe or older folks that have amassed many years in their respective dwellings. A number of small restaurants and bars are within walkin' distance, as well as grocery and drug stores, quirky little shops... Cool spot.
Mike and Evelyn had been shoppin' for new kitchen flooring and had settled on a vinyl plank product- peel-and-stick, four inches by three feet, faux wood pattern. I had a couple friends at work that had recently used a nearly identical product and they were quite satisfied. I had taken some measurements, told them what they would need, then offered to put it down and replace the trim. Evelyn refused to let me do it for nothin', so I agreed to do it for a couple hundred bucks and some Guinness. The toughest part would be makin' from scratch the transition pieces where the new floor would end and the old floor began. But that would be the fun part. Also, they were havin' people over for Thanksgiving Dinner, and I wanted to get as close to done as I could, wanted it to look nice for 'em.
One afternoon, I pulled up all the base trim, gettin' lucky and not breakin' a single piece. Over the next couple evenings, they had given the existing vinyl the big cleanin', and the plan was to go right over the old vinyl with the new.
Sunday, I got to work layin' the new flooring- it was goin' well and it was lookin' good. By Tuesday night, all that was left was the completion of the transitions. I had picked up a number of small pieces of red oak and some flat-head brass screws for this. I would ease all the top edges of the oak, use the thicker boards to reconcile the height difference, then cap it with the thinnest pieces, coverin' the edge of the new flooring. I already had stain and polyurethane. Perfect.
I took the oak blanks home with me. After work on Wednesday, I would work them down with a sander, stain and seal 'em, then head to Clifton where I could cut it all to length and get it in place. By the time company started rollin' in on Turkey Day, the floor would be in great shape. (Baseboard paint touch-up would have to wait until another day- not enough time.)
I left work at two o'clock on Wednesday afternoon, usin' two hours of discretionary time, allowin' me to get a slight jump on the sandin' of the oak. I had forgotten: the red oak was hard as freakin' stone. Even with my head start, I was losin' time. And this was my last day before the Holiday.
I hustled through the sandin' then stained all the blanks and set 'em on an old sheet inside the rear gate of Angela's old 2003 Town and Country.
(This was a good vehicle. Two hundred plus mile and still in fairly good shape- ran well, decent gas mileage, radio was good and the heat and air still worked. It had hauled my people to countless ballgames, family get-togethers, birthday parties. We used it to move the two oldest off to college, traveled together to Florida, the list goes on...)
The stain could dry on the way to Clifton. I would put a coat of polyurethane on 'em as soon as I got there, caulk the baseboard and quarter round while that dried, then get to cuttin' and placin' the oak. Good plan, with no time wasted. I headed out for the final round. It was eight o'clock. It had already gotten dark.
I made it to Mike's, gathered the oak from the rear of the van, and headed in to begin the execution of the plan. I laid out the blanks across two sections of two by four in the basement floor, Black Friday sale ads spread beneath to catch the overspray. I shook the can of polyurethane for a minute or so, coated the nine pieces of stained oak, then moved upstairs and used a wet scrap of an old tee shirt to run the painter's caulk along the trim.
After the caulk was run, I checked on the sealed blanks- they were ready. I immediately set to work cuttin' and fittin' the thresholds. Slow and tedious. There were five spots, and each had different measures. By the time I had completed the last, it was three o'clock Thanksgiving Morning.
Mike had put a pillow and blanket on the living room couch. After midnight, I had told him I would stay and catch a few before I headed home. I loaded all my hand tools, my old beater chop saw (that weighs around sixty pounds and is over twenty years old), and my work backpack into the van. This took three trips. The night was clear and still. It wasn't even cold. Cool, but not cold.
So, at three thirty Thanksgiving Morning, standin' on the sidewalk in Clifton, I decided I would break for home. Wake up in my own bed in a few hours, shower, head on down to Dad's place. I made one last trip into the house and pulled the Guinness carton from the kitchen 'fridge. It held only two bottles, but I had a good idea that the garage 'fridge at home didn't hold much more. No cause to leave 'em here. I locked the front door behind me as I left.
The thirty minute or so trip home lay before me. At this point, I had been up for about twenty-two hours. This had been a crazy busy week, and it was gonna be good to get back to the house. My house. I made my way down Frankfort Avenue and circled 'round to I-64. Up and on and runnin' East. Home in thirty.
I recall comin' over the ridge about a half mile or so from the house. It would be across the creek bridge, around the last bend, and into the straight stretch that passed by the drive. A right turn would drop me off onto the drive and up to the house.
I didn't make it.
You know how you hear those stories about people managin' to crash close to the house?
At around fifty miles an hour and four hundred yards from the house, I fell asleep.
As best as I can tell, blowin' through the woven wire fence did not awaken me. Crossin' the drainage ditch that passed under the road and across the field at a roughly ninety degree angle did. A couple feet deep and about four feet wide, this ditch was just a tiny bit more than the ol' Chrysler could clear cleanly. As the front of the van caught the far side of the ditch, a whole lotta stuff happened in an instant: both front wheels were sheared away, air bags deployed (and, yeah, they do kinda smell bad), and I took the first lick to my head. It was then that I woke up- to an incredibly compartmentalized car crash. The doors had sprung, which had, in turn, lit the interior lights. The headlight buckets were gone. So, after what was, I suppose, about a five second nap, I found myself a participant in a Wreck in Progress, devoid of exterior lighting.
For all the lack of visual input beyond the cabin, it was still immediately obvious that me and the Chrysler were partners in far more than takin' out a few mailboxes. With each successive jolt, I was pitched upward, hard, and the top of the van was pushed down a tiny bit more, to meet some part of the top of my head. I remember thinkin' that this vehicle was definitely gonna be a write-off, and couldn't help but wonder what my physical state would wind up bein'. If I got clear at all.
But, in true car crash fashion, it was over as abruptly as it had begun. The van had completed three complete end-over-end flips and had covered around four hundred fifty feet "off road".
There I sat. Upright. The remaining two wheels on the ground. Headlights gone, dome lights on, radio still playin'. The airbags hung from the dash like giant, wilted Mornin' Glory blossoms. The top of the cabin only a few inches from the top of my head. The lone piece of glass was the windshield, crazed and jammed into the deformed, pinched-down hole in front of me. All other panes had broke rank, disintegrated and scattered.
I forced the sprung driver's door open enough to squeeze my skinny-ass out. Shoes were on my feet, wallet and snips in my right-hand hip pocket, my phone still in my left, front. My right hand is completely covered in blood, but, after all, I'm takin' thinners. This ain't nothin'. I've seen worse than this.
I drag out my phone and flip open the cover. My glasses are gone. Bars? Couldn't tell ya. I can see well enough to choose the dial pad and dial home- recording. Somethin' to the effect of "middle of nowhere, coverage sucks..." Somethin' like that. I shuffle around the Chrysler's lifeless carcass, continuing to try and get through to the house. Finally...!
Hello? I've crashed the shit outta your van. I'm close. Turn left off the lane, I ain't far...
Are you drunk?
No....!
I mill around the vehicle- it's a debris field. Wasn't nothin' left inside but me and a shitload of broken glass. I assumed I had dropped into the ditch, then rolled the Ol' Gal a couple times. But I can't find no blacktop.
I hear a car comin'. Can't be Angela- I'm close, but still too soon. I move close to the van. Don't wanna get tagged. In seconds I'm gonna have a grip on where the road is. I watch as a car comes around the bend and passes me by. Damn! I ain't even remotely close to the road! Gotta be a hundred feet away, at least.
The next car is Angela. She passes me up, but backs into the space in front of the gate I had just barely missed. I head that way- passin' tools, car body parts, wheels, and make my way through the ditch and up to her car. I have her point her car lights down toward the "scene", and I manage to locate my work backpack that holds my pad and my laptop, along with all my other day-to-day tools. I also spot and retrieve one of the two unopened Extra Stouts that I had plucked from Mike's 'fridge earlier.
Home. The plan was to get some shut eye, then on to Renfro Valley for dinner. Instead, I wash the blood from my face and hands, change my shirt, and Angela drives me to the hospital in Shelbyville. (Angela picks up extra hours here, part time, and the place is small, so the comfort level is quite high.) I call the sheriff's office on the way- fell asleep, just me, interior lights on, out in a cow pasture, highway 148, around the fourth mile marker.
CAT scan and some poke around and questions and I am pronounced Lucky as Hell. Deputy Kennedy shows up and we cover the necessary details. (A good man.)
Angela takes me home. The worse thing I come away with is a funky bloody left eye. That, and some knots on my head, general car crash soreness. But, my eyeglasses and the spare vehicle are no more.
We scratch our original Thanksgiving plans of scatterin' in different directions and, instead, Angela makes a grocery run. The two from Lexington show up, and we pull a fifth chair from the desk in the living room and we all sit around our tiny kitchen table and have Thanksgiving Dinner together. Just the five of us. Just us. Hours before, in the blink of an eye, I questioned my own survival. Now, here we sit.
Thanksgiving?
Yep. I'm thinkin' this fits.

Fish