Life's Bone

Continuing along with the experiences of a boy named Dawson growing up in the south......

Blood on the Hay

'Long about the end of summer, me an' Anellyann found more than one excuse to skip off down by the river. An' o'course I took the opportunity to tell her about how I was known as Catfish Dawson to some. She kinda liked calling me Catfish (an' o'course I likt hearin' it). An' she took to noodlin' like a snappin' turtle takes to a finger; onct she got her hands on a catfish there weren't no lettin' go 'til she was good an' ready. She was right spunky that way. An' onct I tol' her about the Wizard an' how it swallered Catfish Cooper, well, she was bent on the idea that we oughta catch that ol' Wizard an' make 'im talk. I foun' myself more an' more in love with Anellyann with her talkin' that way since it was my sentiments ezackly. But, I reckon that weren't gonna happen til nex' summer seein' as how Anellyann had to go back to school. As fer me, well, I had to go back to school too, if'n fer no other reason than to keep all them horny boys away from her. But, first I had to get the hay up.

Gettin' up hay in late August was like goin' to hell fer a vacation. I ain't sayin' I ain't got the muscle fer it, but I was kinda scrawny fer my age. Especilly given them Sullivan boys I had to work with. They was as gritty as they come. They'd yank a bale an' toss it on the wagon like it weren't nothin' to talk about. An' I could see 'em jus' a grinnin' when I had to sorta bump a bale up with my knee, an that would jus' barely get it there, at that. But then there came this day one of them Sullivans made a remark about Anellyann I did not take kindly to. An' I knew it was my moment o' truth. I droppt the bale I was holdin' an' jus' stared at him. An' somehows I mustered up the courage to say,
"Looka here, Tommy. You ain't got no call to say somethin' like that." Well, he jus' took to laughin' an' said,
"That Annalee, she's quite ripe fer the pickin' don't ye think?" When he said that, well, I was about to blow my gasket, even if he did look like a goddamn giant in that moment. There's some things what's sacred to a man, an' Tommy Sullivan jus' stepped on my toe. An' by now, the wagon had done pullt to a stop, an' ever'body was lookin' aroun' to see what the matter was. I had this memory in that moment of my Aunt June bug tellin' me how I was jus' like Dave Dawson takin' them Jap Zeros out over the Pacific. I remember my hands curlin' up makin' fists. An' I remember I said,
"Looka here Tommy, I jus' try to get along like the nex' man, an' I don't wish a bad thing on anybody. But, you got no call to be talkin thata way. Now, no doubt, you can lay me out deader than a door nail, but by god, I'll get a lick in afore I go down." I was kinda hopin' he'd agree with me, but when he began curling up that big meaty hand of his, I knew it was gonna be a differnt kinda story. To this day, I don't have any notion how I did what I did then, an' to tell you the truth, I don' recollect that much about it. But, I don't think I'll ever ferget that sound of my knuckles breakin' Tommy Sullivan's nose. An' I remember how his nose was gushin' blood out over some bale of hay he had his face down in. Its a hard thing to ruin a man's face thata way, but none o' them Sullivan boys has had a bad word to say about Anellyann ever since. Bein' a Christian now, I went to bed that night, an' after prayin' about Anellyann's precious little soul, I said a little prayer for Tommy too, hopin' his nose would be alright in awhile.

The two episodes below are more about the life of Dawson, a young boy coming of age somewhere in the south. I am currently putting the various episodes together at another location where, at some point they may be read from beginning to end. Meanwhile, here are two of Dawson's accounts of his first sweetheart: Fingers of Love, and My Burnin' Affection...

FINGERS OF LOVE

I guess this here is all about how I came to confessin' my undyin' love for Annalee Ann Akkerson. I think there mighta been somethin' special there all along, but at a certain age yer jus' too wet behin' the ears to know it; or at leas' have any kinda words to say about it.

Annalee, she lived all alone with her mama jus' aroun' the bend from my granny's house. An' I had cause to go over that way now an' then, cuz my Granny was always wantin' me to tote a big pokeful of 'taters, an' 'maters, an' corn, an' such to poor Missus Akkerson on accoun' of she lost her ol' man down in the coal mine a few years back. So, Missus Akkerson was always right glad to see me comin', an' she always was sendin' me back with a coupla jars of fresh pullt milk from her cows.

Annalee's mama alway callt her Anna, an' some folks callt her Annalee. But, I always likt to call her Anellyann. Somethin' about sayin 'Anellyann' musta given me a special place in her heart somehow, cuz she was always so smiley faced aroun' me. An' I remember one of my first admirations about Anellyann was that she had such strong hands fer such a skinny little girl. I noticed that when she was milkin' the cows. She'd jus' yank away on them teats like thar weren't no tomorrow.

I reckon it was one partikalar Sunday at the special revival I saw Anellyann sittin' on a foldin' chair under the tent all by her lonesome. She lookt right purty sittin there in a dress her mama made her, an' her hair was all hangin' down aroun' her. So, I jus' sit down beside her an' I don't know if I was more nervous about her beautifulness or about the visitin' preacher man what was about to scare the hell outa ever'body, but my hands was gettin' sweaty, an' I didn't know what to do with 'em. I knew if'n I tried to sit on 'em, I'd look a fool, so I jus' crossed my arms an' sorta stuck my hands unner my arm pits. Maybe Anellyann felt the same way, cuz she sorta crosst her arms too.

An' jus' as the preacher man steppt up in front of ever'body, I suddenly felt my fingertips atouchin' Anellyann's fingertips. An' while the preacher man started diggin' into ever'body's minds about the wages of sin, me an' Anellyann's fingers was carryin' on in little but pow'rful ways. Somehow, as the preacher was gettin' all foamy in th' mouth talkin' about the consequences of livin' a sinful life, an' thinkin' sinful things, me an' Anellyann's hands was takin' over our very souls. The preacher, he was goin' on an' on about how hot it was under this here tent, but how hell was hotter than that. Hell is a fiery pit of boilin' brimstone. Hell is where you burn forever an' ever. I could feel my face gettin' red, an' I could feel the sweat drippin' down an' makin' my head all itchy. But it weren't on account of thinkin' about hell. It was on account of Anellyann.

That very next afternoon, at the revival meetin', me an Anellyann got baptized down by the creek. I reckon I should tell about that next. Fer now let me say, there's two kindsa fires' in this ol' world, in my opinion. Two kindsa burnin'.

MY BURNIN' AFFECTION FOR ANELLYANN.

I went home that night, layin' in my bed thinkin' about Anellyann's fingers. I run my fingers through my hair pretendin' they was Anellyann's fingers. I had this pow'rful feelin' somethin' had come over me, or took aholt of me. It was scary to think about. All the love stories I'd ever learnt growin' up in Shrewsbury seemed to have unhappy endin's. Like folks got caught up in some giddy spinnin' whirlpool that sooner or later sucked them down to the bottom of the sea, or somethin'. The idea that me an Anellyann might be drowned in our destiny of love made it hard fer me to go to sleep that night.

That next afternoon I wandered on over to the tent meetin' keepin' an eye out fer Anellyann. I didn' see her nowheres, an' I was feelin' like a fool. Jus' as the preacher man stepped up to lay it on us agin, I saw her slip in under the tent way over on th' other side an' sit down. My heart was thumpin'. Did I jus' imagine we was rubbin' our fingers together? An' the preacher started goin' on an' on about how's we are lowly creatures, an' I had to admit it in that moment. He likened us to mangy ol' dogs wanderin' lost, lookin' fer love. I couldn't help but nod my head sadly.

I thought that man would never quit beatin' me down lower an' lower. But, finally, we all stood up an began singin' the invitation song to come to Jesus. I thought that song would never end. An, all of a sudden I saw Anellyann walkin' right up to th' front of the tent aimin' on givin' her heart to Jesus! I knew I couldn't in no way compete with that guy, so I figgered maybe I should get on up there too right next to Anellyann so the preacher an' ever'body includin' Jesus would know me an Anellyann was in this together.

Next thing I knew, we was all wanderin' down to the bend in the creek whare the baptizin' pool was. An' then that preacher man took Anellyann by the hand and led her down into the water gettin' her purty little dress all wet. An' then all of a sudden, he just pushed her back into the water like he was tryin' to drown her. I wanted to kill him! She came up agaspin' an' sputterin' water with her hair all wet all over her face. Then that preacher man waist deep in the creek, lookt up at me an' motioned fer me to come on down. I was purty mad by this time, but I waded on out there. He was standin' there with one hand raised up prophesyin' somethin'. I was jus' lookin' over there where poor pitiful Anellyann was sittin' on the grass with a blanket aroun' her. An then he went an' shoved me underwater. Well, I jus' grabbed holt of his arm an' yanked him down too. Pullt him plum under water. When we come up, I could tell he was plenty mad, but what could he do with ever'body standin' there on the bank? So, I jus' stomped on up the bank an' sat down nex' to my Anellyann while the preacher man was tryin' to catch his bible which by now, was floatin' away aroun' the bend.

So, me an' Anellyann was surrounded by all these grown-ups huggin' an' kissin' on us, an' praising the Lord about how's we done give ourselves to Jesus. It was almos' more than I could bear. I didn't give myself to nobody, 'cept Anellyann. Ever'body started headin' back home, an' me an' Anellyann we took to walkin' down the road not sayin' much. Our clothes was startin' to dry out, but I did notice the way Anellyann's dress was kinda clingin' to her, an' it was clear she was growin' up. An' me too, I reckon. Finally, Anellyann, she said,
"Did you feel any differ'nt comin' up outa the water?" An' I said,
"Well, I ain't much used to swimmin' in my clothes, but, it felt purty good, I reckon."
"But, I mean about Jesus, an all," she said, not lookin' at me but jus' sorta starin' down the road.
"Naw, I didn' feel much differ'nt. I mean, I don't got no bones to pick with Jesus. I kinda think the guy gotta raw deal, when you come right down to it. But, hell, I gotta nuf to deal with in this world to be worryin' about the next one."
Anellyann kinda nodded, an' then stopped walkin'. She was lookin' out at ol' man Withers' tobacca patch. An' she said,
"I reckon I was thinkin' I'd come up outa the water, an' ever'thing about livin' would seem a lot better. But, it all seems the same to me."
I took her hand, then an' there.
"Only differ'nce I see, is that me an' you, Anellyann, we're in this ol' world together now." She smiled, an' we walked on down to her place holdin' hands, an' not sayin' much more. I was right hungry when I got back to granny's, an' my clothes was almos' dry.

I find myself writing more episodes regarding the life of a boy named Dawson growing up in the south. This next one is a bit harsh. But coming soon, the story of Dawson's first love. Meanwhile, here is " The Way the Wheels Stoppt Rollin' "

A lot of people who grew up in the south and then left for better economic promise often find themselves reminiscing from far away about their roots. This is probably true for most people who find themselves in some far away place. I grew up mostly in the midwest, but some of my most sentimental memories have to do with a southern childhood. And, not surprisingly, yet surprisingly, I find myself now back once again on southern soil, here now, in Tennessee.

Gram Parsons wrote a song called Hickory Wind which captures a lot of that wistfulness one can feel at times about their early home, or homeland. Gram, a talented youth left the south and quickly became a rising star in a music that was both folkish and southern, yet flavored by the rock stylings of the 70s. He somehow wandered off too deep into the world of hallucinogens, and opiates and died at the young ( and mythical ) age of 27 of an overdose. Gram had a special fondness for Joshua Tree National Park in California, and had told his friends he would one day liked to be buried there. His family ignored this and planned to bury him back in the south. His friends, as the story goes, borrowed a hearse, drove to the airport where Gram's body was to board a plane, and stole his remains, coffin and all, and cremated him out at Joshua Tree. Its a sad story, and no matter how you look at it, he died a long way from home.

Here's the lovely A.J. Lee, backed up by the Tuttles performing a tribute to Gram.

(You can click on the image to go full screen)

Hickory Wind, by Gram Parsons

I think life throws stuff at us every day, all day long, day after day. Whether it is big or small, the question is what is the most constructive way to respond. It might be to say or do something. It might be saying or doing nothing at all. This is the thing we wrestle with about everything if we want an answer that is bigger than our selves.

Life, my dog, turned 13 on the 4th of July. I turned 67 a few weeks later. She is getting grey in the face, and so am I. She still likes to chew on bones and get down to the heart of things; the marrow. And I still chew bones of my own.

Thanks to all who keep throwing me more bones to chew!

....

(The following is a continuation of "Little Pitchers Have Big Ears", and life as a boy named Dawson knew it. However, regardless of whether you have read the earlier story, this perhaps stands on its own.)

My Only True Fishin' Story...

This here's the story about Catfish Cooper and the Wizard. An' in a way, I reckon its about me too. It was my gran'daddy what tol' me about Catfish Cooper. I was jus' a kid, you know. He said ever-body fer miles aroun' knowed about ol' Catfish Cooper. Anyhow's one day I was jus' sittin' on the porch steps, an' he commenced to tellin' me the whole story.
"Y'see, Dawson, Cooper Harlan was onct a little feller jus' like you. An' there weren't a thing in the world Cooper like to do more than to go noodlin' down by the river." When I asked gran'daddy what noodlin was, he said, it might be better I didn't know, "cuz noodlin' can get inta yer head, an' purty soon you'll take to noodlin' yer life away. That's what happen to Cooper, anyhows." Well, I begged an' I pleaded, an' finally he said he'd show me all about noodlin', but I weren't to tell granny or she'll think I's surely be on the road to ruin.

Well, me an gran'daddy took the path out back o' the chickens, an' on down to the river. An' he was tellin' me how Cooper Harlan had a special kinda thing about catfish. He never like to eat catfish, cuz' he liked catfish too much to actually eat one. Well, I stood there on the bank o' the river, an' gran'daddy, he jus' took to wadin' out in the water.
"Now, y'see here, Dawson. See how this big ol' tree done stretched its big ol roots down into the water?" I nodded, all ears an' eyes. "Well, them ol' catfish they like to hideout in places like that. They like got themselves a little underwater cave down in there. So, Cooper, he figgered if he just reached down in all them roots and branches, an' stuff, he might jus' find hisself a catfish. So he took to noodlin' aroun' under the water." I watched as gran'daddy, up to his belt in the water, bent down an' slowly stuck his hands down in the water under them big gnarly ol' Sycamore roots.

"Ye gotta sneak up on 'em nice an' easy-like. Ye gotta jus' move yer hands real slow an sneaky-like." Gran'daddy was plum up to his arm pits in the water, talkin' real quiet. "I know yer back in there, big boy," he was sayin'. Suddenly, he jus'jerked up in the air, makin' a big ol' splash, an' he had a big fat flathead catfish in his hands! "Well, looky here! If it ain't Mr. Whiskers, hisself! I've a mind to jus' put you in my big ol' fryin' pan! Here, take a holt of 'im, boy." Well, no sooner than I wrapped my hands around that fish, he just took to wigglin' so bad, he got loose, an' plopped back in the water! Gran'daddy jus' laughed an' laughed. So, anyhows, as we walked on back up to the house, I knew it was true what gran'daddy said about how noodlin' can go to yer head. It was all I could think about. O'course, I didn't say nary a word to granny about it, but I was already makin' plans to go noodlin' that very next mornin'.

I reckon I was sorta like Catfish Cooper. I didn't really wanna catch me a catfish an' eat 'im. I jus' sorta wanted to catch 'im, an' talk to him a bit, an' then let 'im go. In fact, I had a dream one night where's I was talkin' to a catfish, an' he was talking right back. An' he was tellin' me how hard it is to be a catfish, sometimes. I kept askin' my gran'daddy to tell me more about ol' Catfish Cooper. That's when he tol' me about the Wizard, an' how Catfish Cooper turned into a catfish one day.
"Ye see," he said, there came a day when Cooper was out noodlin' an' he pulled up the biggest ol' catfish anybody had ever laid eyes on. That catfish was bigger than you. In fact, that ol catfish could swaller you, an' ask for seconds." I was kinda scared hearin' that, but gran'daddy said that catfish don't really like the way people taste. Anyways, Catfish Cooper named that catfish the Wizard. An' as the story goes, Cooper Harlan caught that fish over an' over, an' had many a conversation with 'im over the years. "Fact is", he tol' me, "Catfish Cooper one day, when he took to deathly ill, said he wanted to be cremated, an' fed to the Wizard so as how they'd be together forever an' ever. Well, I knew right there that ol' Catfish had done lost his mind. But seein' as he was tellin' me that, an' seein' as how it was his last request, I took it purty seriously." (Well, I was tryin real hard at this point in th' story to wrap my little brain aroun' that notion.)

"Did the Wizard eat Catfish Cooper?" I askt, not sure I was really wantin' to know. "Well, I reckon he did," gran'daddy said. "Y'see, I felt obliged to take that box o' Catfish's ashes an' go lookin' for the Wizard. It was the' least I could do fer a friend, even supposin' he was crazy. So, I took to rowin' aroun' in the river until I spotted the Wizard stirrin' the water up. An' I started dumpin' them ashes all aroun'. An' I'll be darned but what that ol' Wizard just jumped up outa the water and snatched that whole box of ashes right outa my hands."
I reckon I'll never ferget that story my gran'daddy tol' me. An' I took to noodlin' mos' ever' day. I was hopin' one day I might see the Wizard myself. An' whenever I noodled some flathead out of his cave, I'd always tell 'im, "Tell the Wizard I'm lookin' for 'im." An' one day, I'll never ferget, I was sittin' there on the bank of the river, an alla sudden, this big ol' catfish poked his head up outa th' water, an' he had a big ol' smile on his face. So, I jumped up real excited like, an' shouted, "Hi there, Catfish!" An' I swear on my gran'daddy's grave, that fish opened his mouth, and Catfish Cooper hisself said, "Was you wantin' a word with me, or was you wantin' to talk to the Wizard?" An, ever' word o' this story I been tellin' ye' is the honest to god truth, or my name ain't Catfish Dawson.

I try to keep my stories and other accounts here fairly brief. I think it makes it easier for a reader to quickly scan the entry, get the gist of it, and move on with their own busy day. But, now and then, I write something a bit longer than the paragraph or two found here on Life's Bone. These, I tend to post elsewhere. Such was the case yesterday when I found myself lost in the desert somewhere pondering a rock. However, if you would like to read it, it is called, "The Curious Fate of One Juan Rodrigues."

I received a photo of this painting in the mail from someone who purchased it from me years ago. I was delighted to see it, since I had almost forgotten what it looked like, and it is one of very few that I did not photo document at the time. I also received a request to 'release' the image to a film company for use somehow in a film being directed by the edgy film-maker, Harmony Korine. Of course, I like Harmony's work, so I was happy to. I asked the person who sent me the photo if she recalled whether I had given the painting a name or title. She didn't recall such, and said there was no indication on the back of the painting either. So, now I am thinking I should give this painting a name, and am open to suggestions! (This work, by the way, is 3'X 4', and done in airbrush some 20 or more years ago.) Sorry, but I could not figure out how to enlarge this picture on the screen!

I feel so speechless at this early pre-dawn hour, and anxious for the sky to lighten so I can ponder the radiance of people and things anew. Such an extraordinary feeling to have over my morning cup of coffee, and all because a friend revealed his gift. So thank you, Dee.

One of the birthday presents I recently received is this can of custom blend coffee. It was roasted and blended by Bongo Java in Nashville. Some years ago, I was a very regular hang-out at Bongo Java's coffee house. Excellent brew, and a pleasant place to stop if you ever visit Music City here in Tennessee.


I would be remiss if I did not mentioned that the can design was created for Bongo Java by one of my children. Note, his web site is mentioned near the bottom of the can, if you would like to see more of his art and activities!!

For those who took interest in my tale, "Little Pitchers Have Big Ears" (scroll down, if you like...), here's the rest of the story.

This is about me, an' June bug.

I s'pose my aunt Junella was my most favrite person in the whole world. She was always lookin'out fer me when granny got too fuzzy in her head. We had a special way of bein', me and aunt Junella. She tol' me to call her June bug. An' she called me Dawson. That's how special it was. O'course my real name was Jeremy. But she said, I look like Dave Dawson. He was a flyin' ace with the RAF in the war, an' I had lotsa comics about his adventures. An' sometimes at night, I'd lie on the couch with my head on June bug's lap an' read my Dave Dawson comics to her while she was justa arunnin' her fingers through my hair.

"Dawson, jaws clenched, pulled back, prop-clawing into the blue with his guns blazing. He looked down over his shoulder as the Zero burst into flames and spun out of control toward the sea. 'Better luck next time,' he laughed with a sneer."
"Damn!" June bug said. (Y'know, I don't think I ever been as close to heaven as those evenin's with June bug.) Then she'd tuck me into bed, an' she'd give me a kiss goodnight. Her lips was all painted up, an' she smelled like Jasmine. An', I knew she was headed over to Round Town. Probly lookin' for Jackson.

June bug sorta drove me crazy. I didn't know it at the time. I wasn't ol' enough to have a hard-on, but somethin' about watchin' her standin' in front of a mirror, takin' big rollers out of her hair, pullin' nylons up her skinny legs, askin' me if the seams was straight, tryin' to puff a cigarette an' put on lipstick at the same time, was makin' me kinda crazy somehows. Seein' her one night come home with a black eye didn't help neither. An' when she hung herself, it was not something a young man such as myself could hardly bear.

So, yes. I got grandady's rifel, an' one night I shot the son of a bitch. An' you can send me to hell, if'n it pleases you all that much. I don' rightly care no more. But you know, an' I know, my Aunt Junella wouldn't kill herself. It was Jackson made her tie that knot aroun' her neck. He's surely in hell by now, but when I get there, he'll have more hell to pay. So help me, god...or not.

This recently appeared on You tube. A high school teacher reading an assignment from one of his students. The class was Philosophy. The student was my son. It was done well over a decade ago. Thought I would share it with you!

In a warehouse, I walked down through aisle after aisle of artifacts of what used to be. There were whole rows of tricycles of long ago, and one of them looked like one I vaguely recalled riding. There were little red firetrucks, too. Push pedals for racing to the fire. And there were a lot of rubber dolls of various faces. There were rows upon rows of farm implements of every kind. And all kinds of signs here and there. Route 66 signs are big, he said. That kinda shit sells everywhere. There were rows of brass instruments. Tubas, horns, you name it. There were photos of long ago. Photos of stars. Muscle men in leopard skin. Marilyn with her skirt up. Early Elvis. It goes on and on, aisle after aisle. All the icons of the past. Why do you collect this shit, I asked. Because, it makes for cool walls when eating cheeseburgers. When you get right down to it, he replied. History is one thing, business is another.

I reckon as a kid I was always overhearin' stuff I wasn't s'posed to be hearin' at all. But, there's somethin' about the way grown-ups now an' then would take to mumblin' and mutterin' real quiet-like, that made me want to know what it was they knew that I didn't know. What I wasn't old enough to know, I reckon.

But fact is, I knew about what happened to Jackson before they did. I knowed it all along. Like the other day, I was on the front porch swing, readin' a comic, an' listenin' to grandaddy out in the yard talkin' acrosst the fence to old man Withers. An' they was goin' back an' forth about it. Spittin' tobacca. Talkin' about the day they found Jackson down by that bend in the tracks. Sayin' he was prob'ly drunk when that train run over him. Sayin' he probly had it comin', the way he was always chasin' skirts over there in Round Town. Hell, I knew that. Ever'one knew that. Jackson knew ever' woman from here to the county line. He even knew some further out than that. For all I know, he might've even been my daddy.

Anyway, grandaddy was standin' there with one boot up on a fence rail an' pickin' his teeth when he looked around an' saw me. An' he kinda shooed me off with his hand, tellin' me to go on in th' house. I guess they was about to be speckalatin' about how when they was pickin' up pieces of Jackson off th' tracks, he had a purty obvious bullet hole in th' back of his head. Hell, I knew that already. I'd seen Jackson many a time stumblin'down the road late at night, comin' back from Round Town. An' I remember that night, I was up late an' Jackson never did come wanderin' by. An' I remember the sound of that gunshot off in the night, jus' minutes afore the train came roarin' by, blowin' a long warnin' whistle. An' to tell ya the truth, I gotta purty good idea who done it.

(I don't know what to write about today. So, I'll make up a yarn.)

Growing Up

I guess it was close to sundown. I remember how a thick fog had already slid down the hills from the woods making Toddy Hollow look like a bowl of cotton candy. Daddy was sorta drunk on apple cider when he came in. I couldn't blame him for trying to numb out that hand he'd sliced open sharpening a sling blade. He just looked at me and told me to go out to the tobacco barn and get a piece of rope, and he'd meet me at the tractor. I was young and imaginative, so I was a bit scared out in the barn, hoping he wasn't planning on hanging himself on that big oak tree over by the creek...or asking me to do it for him. So, I picked a skinny rope, hoping it would break in the worst case scenario.

So, we headed off on the John Deere and it was belching out a blue fire as we geared down the curve to the pasture. "We got us a problem," was all he said. And then, there the problem was, lying in the tall grass. A cow as wide as it was long. Tongue hanging out full of a thick white slobber. And she had a real wild look in her eyes. I'll never forget that look. She was staring right at me.

So, daddy took to making a noose on one end of the rope. A slip knot. He was fumbling around bad because his one hand was so swelled up. "We gotta get that baby out," he mumbled. Then he handed the rope to me. "She's breech," he muttered. I knew he couldn't do it with his hand so bad off, so I walked cautiously around to the back of the cow. "It's ok," I said to the cow, slapping her haunches confidently even though I was scared as hell. "You gotta put that noose up in there, and catch that calf's back legs," he said, standing over me. I nodded, on my knees in wet cow shit, and began pushing the rope up inside her.

Somehow, I did get that noose around the calf's slimy hot legs and began to pull. "Easy, son," I remember him saying. "Slow and easy." There was a strong smell about all this, and I think I held my breath most of the time. But sure enough, the calf came slipping out with a wet sucking sound. And, it was alive. Limp, but alive. And there was a rising hot steam coming off its body We pulled it around so it could suck its mom's teat, but it was too weak. I was in a sort of daze. Daddy said, "Grab its tongue and squeeze around on it." My hands were a bloody mess, but somehow I did it, and the baby began sucking like there was no tomorrow.

With that, we went back to the house. I cleaned up, and we ate supper. It was cold, but, oh so good. Daddy started laughing, looking over at me. He said, "You got grit, son!" And I went to bed realizing, I had just become a man, and if shit went down, I'd deal with it.

One by one they circled in a spinning frantic drunken dance driven by something from within and something from beyond, as though offering themselves to some god of some mistaken moon; and one by one they sacrificed their simple lives to lay their gift of scorched brains and burnt wings upon a stinking pile beneath the street light in the alley behind the diner all around the pole as some mandala of dead moths.

It was a rather merciless day. The sun would not spare me a moment. But, it wasn't about the heat. The south is always a swelter this time of year. It was something about some paradoxical coldness I felt, even while sweating. Some big indifference.

I guess this song has to do with Lucy in the sky, with not so many diamonds...Marianne Faithful....The Ballad of Lucy Jordan.

It really isn't. Today my feet smell. If I can smell them, and my dog has even left the room, I know it must be bad. Bad to the b-b-bone. "I'm a loner, Dotty. There are things about me you don't know. Things you shouldn't know." (Peewee Herman) Oh why did my mother so insistently plant this conscience in me? Leaving me to think bad things and feel so guilty as to at least wash my hands? Leaving me to sin, but not enjoy it? I still remember that day she said, "Son, if you don't wash your feet, you will be in serious trouble one day. You may get into an ACCIDENT and have to go to the hospital. But, the doctors won't dare go close. There are some smells so vile, the surgical mask cannot filter them out. And you will die there on the gurney.... of stinky feet." With this in mind, I go to take a shower now, paying close attention to this black goo between my toes.

The wide-brimmed hat set square over his head, like some UFO just abducted his brain. The jacket so reminiscent of some post-Korean war cheezy Palm Beach crooning lounge lizard. Dark blue pants with yellow stripes like those that Custer wore at his last stand. The lyrical raspy voiced carnivalesque jump-cuts quite like some Fellini film I never saw before. There were flashes fluctuating between the iconic mega-real, and 'Something's happening here, and you don't know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?' Four encores were killing my knees, but I was determined to pay homage. Last night, still hypnotized by Bob Dylan. It was a gift to me. For my birthday. Thanks, Sam.