What Can I Say?

Last Friday I saw Bob Dylan perform in Bridgeview’s Toyota Park. He was the headliner of the Americanarama tour, which is playing this summer in medium size venues like the soccer stadium in Chicago’s near southwest suburbs. The night before they had played Peoria. Appearing with Dylan were two great bands My Morning Jacket and Wilco.

Unlike the weather we’re experiencing at this week’s end, last Friday was a beautiful night, clear blue sky and a breeze, just on the edge of needing a jacket. The concert opened at 5:30 with Richard Thompson and the Electric Trio. My wife Colleen and I were there with friends Ken and Sharon and my daughter Moe and her boyfriend Don. We did a little tailgating in the parking lot before we climbed up into the stadium. It turned out to be a great place to hear music. Our seats found us close to the stage in the bleachers with a clear view of the performers. Strangely there were empty seats.

I’d last seen Dylan live at the Illinois State Fair in August 2001, twelve years ago. I was there with my family. It was August and Moe was about to move away from home to attend U of I in Champaign. We were in the grandstand bleachers that night, across the racetrack from the stage. Dylan was center stage in cowboy boots, changing from electric to acoustic instruments, wearing a harmonica holder, moving quickly back and forth across the stage engaging the other musicians, leading the vocals of course and playing a ringing guitar. On that summer night when Dylan really got into his guitar riffs he dug the toe of his boot into the stage and swung his leg back and forth in time with the music. That night was beautiful too. Just about a month before September 11 came and changed everything. On that night Bob Dylan was sixty. I was fifty one.

Dylan was very smart in choosing My Morning Jacket and Wilco as his tour mates. My Morning Jacket is an eclectic band out of Louisville Kentucky led by lead vocalist Jim James that seems new but has been performing since 1998. Several of the band members have long hair and throw it forward and back in the tradition of the sixties. Something about that makes me feel good. I tend to like any band that keeps a pedal steel guitar on stage but I especially like My Morning Jacket. Carl Broemel plays that pedal steel by the way. I had never seen them perform but they’re good to watch. The members of My Morning Jacket are all out entertainers. If you want to get acquainted with their music try a studio album they recorded in 2004 simply called Z.

Wilco was perfect for the crowd in Bridgeview because they’re a Chicago band that has been together since 1994. I saw them perform last year at the Hideout. Wilco is like a stealth bomber, hardly noticed but packing a big punch. Are there really famous bands now? You could argue not. There’s so many bands that there may no longer be room for the giant famous bands we remember like the Stones and the Beatles. Wilco has a terrific front man in lead vocalist Jeff Tweedy. They work themselves up to a complicated and loud arrangement of wailing guitars and drums only to drop back into the a simple melody line with Jeff Tweedy’s voice coming through sweet and clear, all in the same song. Wilco brims with talent. They’re high energy. Their most widely heard album, many say their best, is Yankee Hotel Foxtrot recorded in 2002. For a special treat the two bands, My Morning Jacket and Wilco, joined together on stage to perform Neil Young’s “Cinnamon Girl” recorded in 1969 with the band Crazy Horse. The crowd roared their approval. It never ceases to amaze me how good old music continues to live. I guess that would come to no surprise to Beethoven fans.

And then there is Dylan. What can you say? I think we should all watch out when people use that line “What can you say?” It means nothing in itself. We assume, wrongly I think, that when someone says “what can you say?” the speaker is implying that words alone cannot express how good, how bad, how extreme the experience truly was. But I think the question is often used instead to say nothing, to not declare one’s opinion. It’s a safe cliché. Like this.

“What did you think of Dylan last Friday night?”

“Wow, Dylan. What can you say?”

Instead of falling back on that cliché, as I would really like, I have to say he wasn’t very good. On the other hand my friend Ken, who saw him last year in New York, said he was a lot better Friday than when he saw him a year ago.

He opened with the song “Things Have Changed” a title apropos to my experience. He was center stage behind the mike without an instrument. Evidently he no longer plays guitar in his public performances. Maybe it’s arthritis. Bob Dylan is now 72. His voice is gone. That’s a relative statement you know as we’ve been saying his voice is gone for twenty years. I have to say now it’s getting serious. Very serious.

He plays the piano on some numbers. His harmonica playing is good and you don’t hear good harmonica much these days. Ken’s opinion on his performance had a lot to do with his harmonica playing. In New York he reported that he did little if any harmonica, instead staying seated behind a piano and a microphone. Ken liked the fact that he was back in the middle of the band, a short man in a dark suit with stripes down the sides of his trousers. He was surrounded by wonderful musicians. He had all the elements of a great show, famous songs, an attentive crowd, a beautiful setting. I just couldn’t get around the painful growling voice.

Dylan was best on his newest songs. He sang “Duquesne Whistle” and “Early Roman Kings“ from his 2012 album Tempest. I think those were songs written and arranged for the limitations of his current vocal range. It would only be smart to do so. Why write a song that was impossible to sing? Even “Love Sick” from the 1997 album Time Out of Mind worked because it did not require the kind of high and low notes now outside his ability to hit. But it’s painful to hear the new arrangements of his wonderful older songs.

I don’t think musical artists should be trapped into singing the same arrangement of a song simply because it was made famous in a recording that is now stuck in their fan’s minds like a fly in an ice cube. That would require them to sing the very same song the very same way for, in Dylan’s case, fifty plus years. But as I listened to the nearly unrecognizable version of “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall” written in 1962 and recorded on The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, a song that has so much meaning for me and my relationship with my son, I realize he not only changed the music to fit the limitations of his voice he eliminated part of the rapid lyrics so that his tired 72 year old voice could deliver the lines.

Same with “Tangled Up in Blue” from Blood on the Tracks, my daughter Moe’s favorite song. She has a framed Blood on the Tracks album cover. I think the line “wonderin if she’s changed at all, if her hair is still red” reminds her of her mother. But I’m just guessing there. I know it does me. In the middle of that song, her favorite, she turned to me and said

“Is this ‘Tangled up in Blue’?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“You can hardly tell. And the words are different.”

“Yeah.” Moe had a puzzled look on her face. I knew what she was thinking.

Probably the most poignant was the song “She Belongs to Me.” I love that song. It was recorded in 1965 on Dylan’s sixth album Bringing it All Back Home. You don’t know it by its title, but rather its opening stanza.

She's got everything she needs
She's an artist, she don't look back
She's got everything she needs
She's an artist, she don't look back
She can take the dark out of the night time
And paint the daytime black

If you were me you could hear Dylan’s 1965 voice in your head straining and sustaining those notes, lengthening and shortening particular words, the phrasing giving them special meaning. I love Bob Dylan and his work because of the genius and poetry of his lyrics. When I hear that song I imagine the woman who is its subject and the relationship she must have had with the song writer. The lyrics themselves tell a story of a complicated and deep aspect of life among people. But the lyrics are made stronger, the song is made complete, by the beauty of the music. That song is no longer beautiful as performed by Dylan in Bridgeview. It’s a wonderful lyric and the complete package in 1965 was and is great art. But the song we heard last Friday night no longer measures up. I’d rather I had not heard that version. He’d do well to take it off the playlist.

Dylan can do whatever he wants. He’s earned that. He has great talent still and I expect he always will. Why not now use that talent to write wonderful songs to be performed by others with the ability to sing? If you can’t sing yourself you can still be a song writer. And you can record in a studio. The music industry can and does wonderful things with mediocre voices. But on stage, between the giant speakers, competing with the instruments around you? That’s a different thing. Dylan and his voice in concert jut do not measure up to Jim James and Jeff Tweedy. I will buy and listen to every song Dylan ever records. I may have listened to them all so far. But I’m not sure I’ll go see him perform again. Maybe I’m wrong. I’d love to be wrong. But I’d like to be known not by what I did in the past but what I did last. I can’t imagine Dylan feels differently. You’re as good as your last effort. Dylan last effort just wasn’t that good. I wish I didn’t have to say that. I almost feel disloyal. But it’s true.

Two things make me saddest. Dylan began to perform as night fell on Bridgeview. Towards the middle of his set those at the concert began heading for the exits. Maybe they were trying to beat the traffic back into the city. Maybe they had to relieve the baby sitter. I don’t know. But they were walking out as he was still playing. I can’t imagine.
Last, I had the opportunity to talk a lot to a bright young woman, a friend of my son’s, during the week about a lot of things. She talks a lot. As a result, I got to hear a lot of young thought and ideas from both her and my son. I think that’s good for me by the way. I mentioned the Dylan concert.

“Are you a fan?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“I’m not. I saw him just a few years ago. I know he’s revered. I know he’s contributed so much. But I don’t understand the appeal.”

“Have you heard his old stuff?”

“No.” She’s between 25 and 30. “I just know him for how he sounds now. And I have to say, I just don’t get it.”

Maybe I went to see Dylan out of a sense of respect. At some point his performances will end. I don’t know if I want to be there when they do. He’s given me so much. Is it greedy to want more? Will I go to see him again? I don’t know. What can you say?

Farm Kids

I had my first schedule conflict as a retired person today. While working I had schedule conflicts all the time, so many that I’d make one appointment, miss another, and not realize till later I’d blown something else off. I expected few if any conflicts after I stopped working. In Saturday’s mail I received a thank you for agreeing to be a judge at the LaSalle County 4-H fair, and a reminder to be there at 10 a.m. on Thursday July 11. During my last week of work I responded by e mail to the John Howard Association confirming that I would be part of the team that visited IYC Kewanee on July 11, showing up at the gate at 10:00 a.m. IYC Kewanee is a juvenile prison downstate on past Ottawa on Route 80 and South. I had visited IYC Kewanee years ago and wanted to return in order to see if it had improved over time. But obviously I couldn’t do both. I decided to keep my commitment as a food judge for the 4-H kids. Heck, I was a 4-H kid once. John Howard would have other folks on the team visiting Kewanee but I wasn’t sure the people at University of Illinois Extension could find another food judge on short notice.

After reading the 4-H letter I remember Margaret Anderson’s phone call long, long ago. It’s so easy to say yes to things three months in advance. Who knows what they’re doing that far ahead? I’ve always thought that people that plan ahead take special advantage of people like me who don’t. Why Margaret thought me qualified to be a food judge I don’t know, except that people know I like to cook and enjoy eating. My kids would laugh knowing I was judging food. I once imagined out loud at the family dinner table that I might become a food critic. My son Dean immediately sounded off by saying

“Dad, you would make a terrible food critic.”

“What are you talking about Dean? Why do you say that?”

“Because you like everything. I can see it now. Everything you taste would get five stars. When is the last time you had a bad meal?”

I pondered that, maybe a bit too long.

“See? Exactly what I’m talking about. Dave McClure, food critic who thinks everything edible is wonderful.” We got a good laugh out of that one.

So I go to the fairgrounds on the South Side of Ottawa at the appointed time and become part of a bevy of activity in one of the exhibition barns. I find Margaret seated at a table amid lots of forms and clipboards and she puts me to work, pairing me up with Carol Elmore, retired home economics teacher from Mendota. I know Carol from another organization to which we both belong. Carol and I are assigned the microwave fudge entries, the microwave crumb coffee cake, microwave carrot cake, and a number of other categories. You get the idea. It was required that we taste each offering and then rate them using a checklist of criteria individualized for every type of food. Pretty elaborate if you ask me. We did all desserts. The kids had to plan a menu around the dish they presented that contained all the food groups. Some of them did so in great detail. So not only did Carol and I eat little bites of a whole lot of desserts, we imagined them as part of bigger more sumptuous meals. The whole experience made me hungry. It took about an hour to complete our task. I have to say Carol and I were pretty easy on the 4-Hers whose projects we judged. A lot of them were twelve year old kids. For all we knew it was their first try at competitive cooking. So we gave them the benefit of the doubt, except for example the kid whose carrot cake was absolutely uncooked in the center and the girl who left the apples out of her microwave apple brownies. Pretty hard to recommend blue ribbons for those.

I left the exhibition barn and made my way to the lemon shake up stand, where a homemade lemonade drink was only a buck. Lemonade in hand I moseyed down to the livestock barns. Some of the cattle were just coming in so I wasn’t able to see everything. I used to take my kids to this fair when they were little. They always liked seeing the small animals, rabbits and chickens and such while I gravitated towards the animals we had on our farm, the jersey dairy cows and the sheep. There is much less livestock on area farms these days, especially cattle and hogs, with so many farmers specializing in grain only. I didn’t expect to see Jersey cows. If there are dairy cows around they are nearly always Holstein. But as I walked into the diary barn there standing before me were three Jersey heifers, the only dairy cows at the fair that morning, chewing their cuds. Springing heifers I believe. It took me back. They’re such pretty cows. So much of my first eighteen years was spent caring for and being with these animals that I somehow felt at home in their presence.

I was a twelve year old kid at the McLean county Fair with a heifer like this one fifty years ago. I’d tell you what I named her but her name was the same as the receptionist at YSB today and I don’t want to Janet to feel bad. I’d taught my heifer to lead with a halter, taken special care of her, clipped her carefully before the fair and given her a good bath the day before the show. It was my first time in the show ring. I didn’t get a blue ribbon but it was OK. I just loved being off the farm and at the fair.
I started looking more closely at the kids at the fair yesterday. Farm kids. 4-H officials always talk about recruiting more city kids into 4-H, and they probably have, but the fair still belongs to farm families. The Pearse family was there. Tom and Carol farm and raise Hereford cattle out in Deer Park. Their kids are married now. Whenever I see Carol she reminds me that her daughter Mary became a special education teacher because she worked as a teacher’s assistant for my wife Colleen, a special Ed teacher at Ottawa High. Mary lives in Galva now and has a family of her own.

Dick Fricke was there, also from a farm in Deer Park Township, judging something or just helping out. I ran in to Delbert and Michelle Rich who reported their kids had lots of projects at the fair. They live on a farm up by Mendota. Michelle used to work at YSB. They were unloading a crate of chickens. Their kids were “somewhere” according to Michelle. I didn’t get to meet them. We talked a while, then I made my way to the food hall operated by one of the local 4-H clubs and had a hot roast beef plate complete with homemade rhubarb pie and milk for only six bucks. While I was in the lunch line I ran into someone that I didn’t know, but she knew me. I hate it when that happens. I think at any moment I’ll remember her name but I don’t.

After lunch I killed time on a bench under a shade tree close to the food hall. Kids were walking by in groups of two or three, goofing around, looking at each other, being kids. I remember at the fair wanting to know where other kids were from. I went to a small school and we were around each other so much, the Danvers kids, that it was a big deal to see new kids. Gridley kids, El Paso kids, Minier kids, Lexington. I knew a few boys from playing sports against other schools but there were so many new kids at the fair. And girls. Farm kids, at least farm kids like me, weren’t around other kids much. All summer we were out there in the country, working, taking care of animals, wishing we were at the fair. When we got to the fair we were gawky. It looked to me yesterday as if little has changed. Sure they have ear buds now, stare at their smart phones and text, but they’re still kids hungry to experience the world outside their own.

That’s about all I did yesterday. It was a great day, for a Thursday.

It's Friday Already?

I think it is good to surprise yourself, if even in a negative way. This is my fifth day of retirement. I’m still not used to the fact that I get so few e mails, and I find myself thinking about what may be happening in my office. So I certainly haven’t settled into retirement. I figure after five days I’m just flirting with the concept at this point. But I was caught off guard by my reaction to a friend’s e mail yesterday. Let me set this up a little.

It may be natural for working people to envy the retired, but I don’t think I envied them in a big way. Retired people, mostly board members, would drop into my office from time to time and ask what was going on; at YSB, in the community, or with state politics. They would ask in a fairly detached way, as if it was impossible for them to know because they were out of the loop. Often they did this after being gone for long periods of time in the winter. They looked tan and relaxed. Anything I told them was met with, it seemed to me, only idle interest. They would shake their heads and laugh at the State of Illinois’ budget, whereas I was sweating blood at the prospect of making cuts caused by the legislature’s countless proposals to slash human services. But I understood. I really did.

Most of the retired people I encountered were, when engaged in gainful employment, very involved and equally concerned as I about the sorry state of government, our priorities as a society, and how it affected community life, families, and thus kids. But as retired people those worries were not a part of their everyday thinking. It didn’t mean they weren’t concerned, or actively trying to change what we value and how we behave as people. It was just that their life, and their actions, were to a large extent no longer dependent on such things. When your income is fixed it sounds bad, because it implies it will never go up. We forget that those on fixed incomes are also in situations where their income cannot go down either. Unlike employed people who can be brought into someone’s office on any day, at any hour, and suddenly lose their jobs and thus their incomes America’s retirees, those lucky enough to be able to afford not working, are by and large safe from economic catastrophe. At least the tan relaxed people I remember making their way back to my office in April or so. I begrudged them nothing.

What really made me mad about retired people though, every time, was this. I would be talking to some older person not in the workforce, at church, in the office, or in the store and the topic of some event in the future would arise. It might go like this.

“Hey, are you coming to the Lasagna dinner?”

Yeah I thought I would. When is that?”

“Saturday.”

“Saturday. Yeah…what is today?”

What is today? Who the hell doesn’t know what day it is? I dread Monday, think about an almost certainly unpleasant Thursday meeting all through Tuesday and Wednesday, have a deadline to meet on Friday, can’t wait to make it to Saturday when I finally have a little time to myself and then start feeling anxious about Monday again like clockwork starting about 7:00 p.m. Sunday, and you don’t know what day it is? This week I’ve been to four offices in four towns, worked two nights, had three long conference calls and a board meeting and you don’t know what day it is? You smug booger you. I’m dying here just to make it to Friday night and you smile and ask me what day it is? Are you kidding me? Are you saying that just to make me mad?

But would I react to the dumb question and the smiling vacant face across from me? No I wouldn’t. I’d respond in a friendly way.

“Today is Wednesday.”

“Oh, yeah. I lose track. When you’re retired every day is like Saturday you know?”

Sometimes I would manage a smile and sometimes I wouldn’t. But I always got mad and I never got used to the unfairness, the inequity, the downright wrongness of having so much time you didn’t know what day you were living. I remembered it from my days travelling. Sometimes in a foreign country I would go out into a town trying to buy one thing or another, or to find a Laundromat, and find everything was closed because it was Sunday. But I had absolutely forgotten how that felt. And I wanted it back. I wanted so much to have the luxury of time, to gain that relaxed state of being in which there exists no urgency in anything, that everything can be done and when it is done matters little or not at all.

Flash to yesterday. I’d watered my garden (mostly tomatoes and hot peppers), put up some tomato stakes my friend had left for me earlier in the week, read some, and taken a giant nap. We were having a friend over for a drink around 4:00 and leaving at 7:30 for a party on the river where we would watch Ottawa’s terrific fireworks display. Sometime in there I had to take a shower. But first I checked my e mail in the shack. There was a message from Ann in Chicago about various things, horseradish, going out East, other stuff. Nice newsy e mail. She ended it with this.

“Make sure I’m on your e mail list. I can’t wait for tomorrow to read your first post YSB Friday update.”

Tomorrow? Tomorrow is Friday? I looked at the calendar. It still showed June so I flipped it to July. There it was. July 4th. Thursday. What happened? I ran through the week.

Sunday I was still technically employed. If the manure had hit the rotating blades of the YSB fan, so to speak, I could have been called Sunday night to weigh in on some situation. Monday I was down at the church and got that call that took me away. Tuesday I had a good day revising the partial draft of the novel, I listened to the Cubs game, fell asleep when they were ahead 7-5 and found out in the morning they’d lost 8-7. Wednesday. What happened Wednesday? A lot of reading and another big nap. It might have rained. Wednesday was sort of lost. And now it’s Thursday? Really? I’ll have to write my update in the morning.

So forgive me. In five short days I’ve become that retired person I loathed when I worked. It doesn’t take long. No deadline looms. Not one meeting to dread. Not an issue to agonize over or a decision to put off anywhere on the horizon. Forgive me or congratulate me. It’s all in how you look at it. I hope to be, and fully expect to be, lost in time quite often. It’s OK. I like it that way. I’ll try hard not to ask you what day it is.

I could have closed there but let me share this. Sunday in church it was announced that the daily summer lunch program for kids being operated by the YMCA in our church's first floor could use volunteers. It’s a great partnership. They have a big program and we have a big kitchen and dining area. The church is literally across the street from the Y. So I went down about 10:45 Monday. It was my first day of retirement. They were going to serve at 11:30. The menu was meatball subs (pre made meatballs in marinara, nice provolone cheese, good buns needing slicing) salad, and fruit.

“What can I do for you?”

“You want to prepare the fruit?”

“OK. What do you want me to serve?”

“How about the cantaloupe?”

And so I prepared a dozen cantaloupe for 70 or so hungry day campers, from maybe age four through ten. Cut them in two, scoop out the centers, cut them into eight wedges, cut off the rind, chunk the wedges, and throw them in a big plastic bowl. I love doing stuff like that. Another woman was making a salad from scratch and very healthy. It looked like a great lunch. I talked with the other staff as I worked. Then they insisted I stay and eat. Insisted. I was taught, you know, that it’s rude to turn down such offers so I stayed and found myself sitting with six little day campers and a camp counselor at one of those big church folding tables. The kid on my left talked non-stop, mostly about eyeballs and what you could do with them. Fascinating. The rest were hungrier and kept their mouths full. As we were finishing the little guy on my right tapped my arm, looked up at me, and said

“Mister, can I have more of those wet orange chunks?”

“You mean these?” I asked, holding a piece of cantaloupe up on my fork.

“Yeah, those.”

“Do you know what they are?”

“No.”

“They’re cantaloupe. Some people call them muskmelon. You had them before?”

“No. But I like them.”

“Can he have seconds on the fruit?” I asked the counselor at the table.

“As long as he eats everything else.” I looked down. This kid’s plate was shiny clean, obviously a member of the clean plate club like me.

So I got him more wet orange chunks. Feeding kids good food-it’s not a sophisticated or complicated approach to helping young people, but I think it works well and is important. I’ll go back.

Thanks for reading this first edition of Update from the Shack all the way to the end. Talk to you again next Friday, or a day close to it.

Spring Plowing

In the sloping field east of the house I was driving the Minneapolis tractor pulling a three bottom moldboard plow mounted on a three point hitch, going deep, turning over long ribbons of black dirt and making a furrow. The right tires of the tractor were in the furrow, tilting the tractor to one side. My Dad had gotten me started, “laying out the land” as he called it, by plowing the first two furrows side by side and straight. I continued by following those two furrows he’d laid down in the center of the field, raising the plow at the end before the fence, driving to the other furrow, lowering the plow, and heading back in the direction I came. Away from the house and toward the house, away from the house and towards the house, the patch of black plowed dirt getting wider and wider in the middle of the field, the unplowed field, corn stalks whitened and left over from the winter, getting narrower towards the edges. It was still cold in the spring of 1964 but the sun was out. As I drove back and forth I stared at the front tire of the Minnie turning in the furrow. No cabs on tractors then, I spent the day in open air. I liked the dirt smell. I loved the sameness of plowing, the simplicity. I was thirteen.

As I stared at the furrow I saw a mouse running furiously ahead of the turning tire. He would gain a little ground, slow down to negotiate a clod lying in the furrow, lose ground, and then speed ahead. If he would only go sideways, I thought, change course back into the stalks or into the plowed ground. But he didn’t. He couldn’t jump the straight dirt wall of the furrow back to the stalks, though he tried, and he ignored the open black dirt on the other side. Probably too foreign for him, I figured, fresh black dirt he’d maybe never seen or smelled. He looked to be wearing down. Before the tire reached him I hit the clutch and stopped. He ran on ahead and then stopped too, hunched and trembling.

“Dumb mouse,” I said to no one in particular. I throttled down and took the tractor out of gear. I started to set the brake and then remembered the plow behind me, its three slabs of curved steel buried in the ground, and knew it wasn’t going anywhere.
I’d been on the tractor all morning and it felt funny to walk. My heels sunk into the soft plowed ground. I walked down the furrow to where the mouse was still huddled.

“Get out of here,” I told him. He ran down the furrow.

“Go right you dumb mouse.” But he continued in a straight line ignoring the plowed ground. I could run him all the way to the end, I thought, and he could get out by the fence. But I had just made my turn. If I kept stopping like this it would take forever. He kept running and I got back on the tractor.

Starting from a dead stop with the plow fully in the ground was almost too much for the Minnie. I had to rev it up full and inch the plow higher with the three point lever to get going again. Once I was up to speed I sunk the plow back to the depth Dad wanted. As I did I heard the engine lug down to the sound I’d been listening to all morning. ‘I can’t be stopping and starting over and over’ I thought. Within seventy five yards I’d caught up to the moue again.

“Damn mouse,” I shouted.

I pushed in the clutch and stopped again. This time the mouse barely moved from in front of the tire. I walked around him in the plowed ground, going way ahead of him. With dirt from the plowed ground I made a wall, a sort of dam in the furrow. Then I walked back towards the tractor, shooed the mouse forward, and started up again. Black exhaust came out of the muffler straight ahead of me as the Minnie once more struggled to start from standing stop. I plowed up to the earthen dam I’d built in the furrow, leaving a gap of about two feet between it and the front tire of the tractor, and got off the tractor once more.

The mouse was trapped between the tire, the furrow barrier I’d built, and the fresh dirt. He looked defeated. I took off my cap, got down on my knees, chased him up against the tractor tire, threw my cap over him, grabbed him gently, and folded my cap so he was enclosed inside. I walked across the land I’d just plowed, across the stalks and up to the fence. I released the frightened mouse into the tall grass in the ditch by the road.

After chores my Mom, Dad and I had supper together. Lots of times we were quiet, busy eating, but this night Dad wanted to talk.

“So I couldn’t help but notice you were stopping and starting there for a while plowing. What were you doing?”

“There was a mouse in the furrow,” I said, a little sheepishly. “I didn’t want to run him over. But I finally got him out of there.”

“I thought that might be it,” my Dad said. He went back to eating.

Between bites of meatloaf he spoke up again. “When I plowed as a kid and saw those mice in the furrow I’d speed up and squash them. I don’t know how I got so lucky to have a son so kind as to want to spare the life of a lowly mouse.”

Mom looked at Dad and smiled. “Could be I had something to do with that Dad.” They always called each other Mom and Dad, rarely using their given names. I looked up from my plate. They were looking at me and smiling. I blushed. As a teen age boy in 1964 I felt kindness was better hidden.

Giving Thanks

On this Thanksgiving I’m thankful for much, but I’m especially thankful for my shack. It’s finished, as much as any place you live in is totally finished, and I use it nearly every day. I’m thankful for its warmth and comfort, its quiet, its utility. I’m thankful for what it gives me-solace, peace, and a sense of retreat from stress. While I am the one who conceived the idea of creating this space, and building it myself, I certainly did not do it alone. This Thanksgiving I have a lot of people to thank. I hope I didn’t leave anyone out.

Australians Yuri and Steve for helping me build the original shack Overlooking the Pacific outside Sua, Ecuador in 1976.

Lester Walker for devoting a whole book to personal spaces.

David Minch for first building almost the same beautiful shack somewhere else.

My wife Colleen for accepting the concept.

WCMY’s Radio Trader and the guy who sold me the patio door for $100.

John Liebhardt, carpenter, for consultation, bailing me out of framing problems, cutting the first rafter, making the stair stringers.

My daughter Maureen for all her thought, labor, support and encouragement.

Kerem Araci for all that good immigrant labor.

My son Dean who helped me build the porch in a day.

My brother Darwin for the trenching, all the electrical wiring, building the stove table, giving me tools, and convincing me I could do it all.

My brother in law Ron and his sons Brian and Brad Schieber for bracing the floor, installing the glass wall and cedar siding.

John (Jackie Knight’s brother) for donating the steel for the stove table.

Marine Stove Works on Orcas Island, Washington for finally delivering the Sardine stove.

My brother Denny for urging me to build the shack from the beginning and travelling from California to help put sheeting on the frame, defining the space.

McConnoughay Roofing for the obvious.

Maze Lumber for finally getting me to understand what I needed to do to vent my stove through the roof so as not to burn the place down.

Matt Krewer for installing the stovepipe and chimney and getting it right.

Gary Smith, my neighbor, for hooking the shack to the house panel and turning on the lights.

My neighbor Bill Zeller for tool loans and encouragement.

Jim Hinterlong for his truck, tools and helping with the foundation beams.

All the guys at Golden Rule Lumber for teaching me about building materials, talking me through confusion, and free delivery before the gas prices went up.

Bill Aplington for crafting the beautiful stained glass triptych.

Jim Vaughn for putting me on to Jim Scoma.

Jim Scoma from Tonica lumber for persuading me to buy the right windows and for trimming out the shack.

Megan Van Vliebergen for giving me my writing desk.

Davison Sawmill, Sawyer Michigan for building the hickory slab writing desk.

Joe Martin for building the stereo cabinet.

Rich Goetz for donating the speakers and CD changer.

Joe and Will Garcia for helping me cut and split the first batch of oak for the stove.

The Daily Times for the pallets from which I made the wood crib.

Kerry and Pat Bryson for the donation of pine stove wood.

Thank you to all the people for all the gifts, help, and encouragement I found among the people close to me. Thanks for understanding the shack, my need to build it, and most importantly my need to be in it. I wrote this thank you from there.

Bad news on the doorstep...

During this summer drought I've been watering my garden early in the morning. Sometimes I'm out there when the paper lady shows up. Her husband cruises slowly down our street and hands her papers from the car window which she throws on our driveways. Used to be all the neighbors got a paper. The stops now are both few and far between. She complains about the cost of the plastic bags, which the Tribune must require because why would you bother putting the paper in a plastic bag these last couple of hot dry weeks? If the carriers have any discretion over the bags they use my carrier has to be buying the absolute thinnest and cheapest. They used to be blue. Now they're flimsy see through. They tear immediately when they hit the concrete on the drive, leaving small holes. I discovered this because I used to use the Trib bags to clean up after my dog. I'm using other bags now after learning the hard way. I feel like the whole newspaper thing is deteriorating. What can you do?

I don't know how much longer the Chicago Tribune, or our local Ottawa paper, will continue to be delivered at my house. The local paper has apparently run out of kids to take the route and the adults that deliver the Trib are delivering it as well. The local paper used to be an afternoon paper but now that it's being printed out of town and trucked in each morning with yesterday’s news they've stopped pretending and deliver it in the morning. You can get both papers online. I'm afraid both driveway delivery deals are going to run out. I’m already starting to mourn the loss of that good feeling I get of holding the paper in my hand, turning the pages, and when I’m done reading the sports section folding it into a tablet size pad and working the crossword with a yellow pencil. The coffee is ready by then. It’s quiet. I love those mornings.

I dread the day that home delivery is discontinued. But given the cost of paper, printing and delivery compared to hitting “send” on a computer how can they afford to do otherwise? As old people like me, who are hooked on real paper, dwindle away it will surely happen. Its economics I guess. When the customers and the money start to run out some things change and some just go away. I can feel it coming, can’t you?

I Miss My son

I miss my son. He’s been living out of the country for nearly two years. I saw him Christmas before last and it’s just been too long. We Skype from time to time, but there’s a time difference and we’re both too busy to work that out, too much alike in being averse to planning ahead. We don’t talk enough. Even when we do, dress it up all you want but Skype is still a telephone call with video. It’s not being with him, sharing a meal, hugging him. I find myself thinking about him more and more. I miss him terribly.

He’s the younger of our two kids at twenty seven. His twenty nine year old sister came home for Father’s Day weekend 2012 and stayed two nights in her old room. I love having her home. After a while we find ourselves talking about things we never think about, and it takes us out of our regular lives. We cooked out, goofed around in the yard, didn’t do anything special but had a wonderful time.

One night we got out my old vinyl albums. They had been locked away in the attic since God knows when and I was afraid they were ruined. They were fine. I’d stored them in a wooden crate standing straight up on edge. Although I don’t have a turntable hooked up, her boyfriend was able, through some kind of technological magic, to plug his cell phone into our living room stereo and play music through Spotify. It’s a service that provides access to, I don’t know, every song ever recorded in every language in the course of human history, for ten dollars a month. I was amazed. Anyway, I leafed through the albums and when I found a song that meant a lot to me, he would find it on the phone and play it. My albums came alive as I held them in my hand.

In addition to indulging in old music, I uncorked my daughter’s Father’s Day present to her Dad. I had two fingers of very smooth small batch Kentucky Bourbon while listening to old stuff I’d nearly forgotten about: Jeff Beck Rough and Ready, Grateful Dead Wake of the Flood, John McLaughlin Belo Horizonte. I had another two fingers while playing Bruce Springsteen’s Darkness on the Edge of Town, John Prine’s Common Sense, and Arlo Guthrie’s version of his Dad’s old songs “1913” and “Ukulele Lady” from Hobo’s Lullaby.

My daughter fetched more ice and poured another as we started on a string of Bob Dylan songs, complete with questions about where I was when I first heard them, followed by answers that were as truthful as I could remember. The lyrics were coming back to me really well and I was singing along loudly until the room filled with “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall” from Dylan’s second album The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan. The lyrics, like Dylan’s lyrics, always have hit me hard. As much as I tried not to, I stopped singing and closed my eyes as tears ran down my face onto the table. My daughter held my hand. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was because it was Father’s Day. But as he’s done so many times, Dylan touched my heart, this time as a sixty year old Dad. Who knew?

“Payback is a bitch,” they say. That same idea is expressed in many forms. “Everything that goes around comes around” was popular in the sixties. Westerners’ vague ideas about karma contain that thought as well. Sometime in March 1975 I unbelievably caught a single ride from Frankfurt, Germany to Casablanca, Morocco. Throughout that spring and summer, I hitchhiked all around Morocco before striking out across Algeria, Tunisia, Libya, and Egypt. I traveled North Africa with no plan, no timetable, and certainly no itinerary. During that time I may have written some letters to my parents but I can’t recall mailing them. I didn’t call. I didn’t think of it, to be honest. I was busy.

Late in September, I flew from Cairo, Egypt to Athens, Greece, back to the western world with more reliable post offices and telephone companies. From an old wooden phone booth in Piraeus, I called my parents’ farmhouse. My long silence affected my parents greatly. They lived so predictably on the dairy farm I grew up on. Each day without fail they got their mail from a big box by the blacktop road at 10:00 a.m. The daily absence of a letter from their absent son got to them. Relatives and friends died and they couldn’t reach me. While I was in Africa the anxiety got to my Mom. She and Dad talked to my brother who was in the military. As he later told me they wanted to contact the International Red Cross or maybe the State Department to locate me and make sure I was still alive. He talked them out of it.

In November I walked into their kitchen unannounced after buying the second half of a guy’s ticket from Amsterdam to Montreal, making it to Chicago, and hitchhiking to the farmhouse. I walked up the stairs with my backpack. They were sitting at the table having coffee. They broke into tears. “There was a time we didn’t know if we’d ever see you again.” My Mom said. I didn’t understand.

The next morning at breakfast my Mom got serious, and angry while describing the pain they went through during the long time I failed to communicate. “If you ever do that again,” she said, “don’t bother coming home.”

“Oh, Mom,” I said. “You don’t mean that.”

My dad, a soft-spoken man, reached across the table, put his age-spotted farmer’s hand on mine, looked into my eyes and said, “Yes, David. She does.”

If we live long enough and keep our wits about us, perhaps we’ll understand everything before we die. That’s what I’m hoping. A year and a half later in a shack on the Pacific coast of Ecuador, I wrote a mushy story from my Dad’s point of view about what he might have thought during my absence. But it wasn’t until I had an epiphany on Father’s Day weekend listening to Bob Dylan’s thrumming guitar and strained voice that I experienced what my Dad must have felt.

Not only can you Skype your son in Rome for free, and listen to a giant catalog of songs on a cell phone, you can Google the lyrics of any song you can imagine and be reading them in less than a minute. I used to listen to Dylan's lyrics, and Rolling Stone lyrics, and others over and over trying to determine what they were really saying. My friends and I would disagree and argue. Now with an internet connection, they all become clear in no time.

In “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall,” a father and a son converse. The father asks his blue-eyed son, his darling young one, five questions in order to learn about his son’s life away from him: Where have you been? What did you see? What did you hear? Who did you meet? What’ll you do now? When I was young I never really heard the father’s questions. I was much more interested in the son’s answers. His answers define the song. As you listen to his words you imagine his journey. The son’s answers are poetic, fantastic, vivid, obscure, and wonderfully Dylan-esque.

Where had the blue-eyed son been? To twelve misty mountains, six crooked highways, seven sad forests, a dozen dead oceans, ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard. Can his Dad possibly understand that?

He saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it, a highway of diamonds with nobody on it, a roomful of men with their hammers a bleeding, ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken, guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children. He heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world, one hundred drummers whose hands were a blazin’, ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody listenin’, the song of a poet who died in the gutter, the sound of a clown who cried in the alley. He met a young child beside a dead pony, a white man who walked a black dog, a young woman whose body was burning, a young girl who gave him a rainbow, a man wounded in love,k another who was wounded in hatred. 

And when his Dad asked ‘what’ll you do now?’ he answered bravely, ‘I’m a-goin’ back out fore the rain starts a-fallin’. I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest dark forest, where the people are many and their hands are all empty. Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters. Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison. Where the executioner’s face is always well hidden. Where hunger is ugly, where the souls are forgotten. Where black is the color, where none is the number. I’ll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it. Reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it. I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’. But I’ll know my songs well before I start singin’.”

And through it all with a rising voice and driving blues harp is the refrain: “And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.” The song ends. A Dad asks five short questions, and the son answers them with exuberance, so full of energy, and so determined. If the Dad could but add a verse at the end it might go like this.

“I know everything that you speak of is out there. I saw it myself and I feel it inside me. Please don’t go back there its cold and it’s risky. I fear that hard rain will fall hard upon on you. Stay in one place and live life more slowly. Stay close to me, I love you and miss you.”

But it’s not a Dad’s song. The Dad is the straight man. It’s a song that captures the essence of youth. Fathers can’t help it. They stay home and cry. Neither can sons. They have to go out and live.