Going, going...but not gone

I couldn't let this moment in history pass without pausing to look skyward.

The article, from the Associated Press, was in today's paper on page 11. The headline read "Voyager 1 probe has left the solar system." Left the solar system!! That's not the kind of event you read about every day. NASA actually thinks it might have left our solar system a year ago but they couldn't be sure until now.

That's the kind of event I used to read about in short stories and novels, a long row of books that sat on the shelf in my bedroom. Stories by Heinlein, Van Vogt, Asimov, Clarke, Bradbury, Leinster, and others. Stories set in some distant time and place.

But now, in my lifetime, something had been sent from Earth and was now moving through interstellar space. The article states, "...the spacecraft has escaped the sun's influence and is now cruising 11 1/2 billion miles away in interstellar space."

That's a great word. "Interstellar." I can just hear Ray Bradbury saying, "See? I told you." 

So where is it going? you might ask. According to some experts, it's headed for Alpha Centarui, the nearest star. That should take about 40,000 years,  which will be about the same time the Cubs win the pennant. 

When Voyager 1 lifted off and headed for space, the year was 1977. Aboard was a gold-plated record which contained, among other sounds, some representative music of Earth. So whoever finds the ship, in whatever galaxy, in whatever eon, and unforeseen dimension, will have to have a turntable. If they do, they'll hear Bach's Bradenberg Concerto #2 in F (just the first movement. Too much Bach is not a friendly gesture); Chuck Berry singing his classic "Johnny B. Goode;" Louis Armstrong and his Hot Seven with "Melancholy Blues" - not sure why they chose that tune - and Blind Willie Johnson with "Dark Was the Night." 

No rap, no Pit Bull, no theme song from "The Sopranos." See how far we've come in the past 36 years? 

Next time you look up at the night sky and see the stars - assuming you can see through the urban haze - think about Voyager 1.

Imagine this cold, metal disc hurtling through the space between the stars. A hopeful hand reaching out from Earth, perhaps eventually to tap some alien life form on the shoulder and say, "We're here with you." Then, with a stroke of luck or technical ingenuity, that distant being will put the disc on a turntable, drop the stylus into the groove, and hear Chuck Berry's opening guitar licks as he moves into Johnny B. Goode. 
And that being will say, "Cool. I wish I could play like that.
"Chuck & "Johnny B. Goode" on Soul Train 1973

All Those Yesterdays

Yesterday has been following me.

From 1972 and 1953 and 1947. Decades ago.

Not merely yesterday.

This weekend - it started today for me - is attempting to pull me back in time.

Faces and events seem to be gathering like wind-swept leaves from an October maple and swirling about me.

Colorful but fading. Patterns but scattered. (Sorry about the trite metaphor but it’s the best I could come up with)

It began today with a large gathering for lunch at Mike Duffy's in Kirkwood.

The occasion: to celebrate the life of Ellie Ohrn. We don’t mourn death anymore. We celebrate life. 

You probably didn’t know Ellie. I barely did. She was an established writer, close to legend status, when I first worked at D'Arcy Advertising from 1972 to 1975. I was busy trying to make a good impression, come up with incredibly original creative concepts. Ellie was a writer in the group but I didn't get to know her well. My loss. After hearing what friends and family and co-workers had to say about her today, and the obit in today's Post-Dispatch, I missed the opportunity to connect with someone quite special.

So, at the lunch today, were faces from my D'Arcy past, men and women I hadn't seen in a long time, many widows now, several with walkers or canes, stooped and struggling to remain vital, deal with losses brought by aging. Yet, they were there. And several who looked remarkably well. Sun-tanned, erect, bright-eyed, sharp and gregarious. How, I wondered, did they view me?

It was a visit to yesterday, 41 years ago. No game like the ad game; no stories like those told by the men and women who fought in the trenches for market share.

The leaves of time will continue to gather over the weekend.

Dragging me back 60 years, to 1953, when I graduated University City High School.

You guessed it. Saturday and Sunday, 60 or 70 of us (including spouses) gather for our 60th Reunion. Six decades doesn't begin to blur my memories of Mr. McKinney's chemistry class. Because of him, I decided to become a chemical engineer. That got shot down after two years at Wash. U when I ran headlong into Physics and some advanced math class I have since blocked out. I still have nightmares about those two years. He was just one. There were many others. I even remember where I sat in their classes. 

I still see the long, locker-trimmed halls, smell the aroma of wax, feel the comforting warmth as I entered the school building on a frigid winter day after walking several blocks. 

High School, in retrospect, pushed me into corners of acceptance I had no interest in. Good grades, polite friends, avoidance of cigarettes and booze, engineer boots and turned up collars to be cool. Joni James and Kitty Kallen and the Four Aces and even Spike Jones. For me it was not a time to break out and announce myself, but continue the long, gradual incline to self-improvement and acceptance. And pleasing my parents.

Those faces of my U. City classmates, fortunately with name tags attached, await me this weekend.

One more significant date. Sunday. August 18th.

My birthday.

They don't mean much these days, markers I'm glad to reach but have no cause to celebrate. Dinner with my wife, a movie in a theater (not hi-def TV), a walk with our two golden retrievers if the weather stays nice. That's birthday time. No, my thoughts don't go back to the day I was born. I know I was there. The rest is legend. But I remember the apartment on Leland in the Delmar Loop when I was four. The house on Midvale across from Flynn Park, when I was six. And a goldfish I pulled out of a bowl and watched it flop on the rug until it died. I might have been two or three then. My first experience with death, though it had no name. 

So the days continue. I played softball this morning. A great morning. Hit two singles, a double, a triple, and pitched. We won, easily. The back is a little sore, but it'll feel fine tomorrow. And today will be yesterday with fond memories of that game.

What's the lesson? Adele knows what it is. I interviewed her a couple of months ago, for a video project. Adele is 101 years old. Very sharp, both mentally and physically. She lives in an assisted-living facility. "So, Adele, what's your secret?" She smiled, nodded her head. "I don't have one. I just don't think about my age."

That's the secret. And I share it with you. So even if and when those fragments of the past occasionally come skittering your way, you'll know what to do. You'll know to enjoy those times, appreciate "old friends," learn as much about yourself as you can, and then get on with your life. Just don't think about how old you are. You have better things to do.

Tomorrows in the Key of C

His name is Alex.

My reason for writing this is to ask you to do something important for him.

I first met Alex when he was 12 years old.

At the time I was host of a cable TV show called "Living Well." It ran weekly on HEC-TV. I think the total audience was 53. But the show gave me the opportunity to interview some rather interesting people, most of them seniors, because that's who the show was meant for.

So what was I doing interviewing a 12-year-old kid? Well, he was quite a kid.

Turns out Alex had a burning interest in World War II. It began when his dad took him to France and showed him the beaches at Normandy. Now Alex had made a hobby of collecting items associated with the war, even seeking out veterans. Not long after my meeting with him, Alex produced a documentary called "Six Heroes," a series of interviews with six men who had landed in Normandy on D-Day. It was an impressive effort, good enough to win him Best Documentary at the St. Louis International Film Festival that year.

Like I said, he was quite a kid.

I wish I could tell you this story has a happy ending. It doesn't.

Alex went on to better things, became a positive influence on many friends and younger people, went to college, gave his parents much pleasure. And some concerns. Alex had a tendency to drive too fast. And that's what ended part one of his story. As his parents said, "He was a meteor who shot across our skies."

That was a little more than three years ago. 

And now a new story has begun.

You see, his dad, Tom, has established Pianos for People as part of the Alex Townsend Memorial Foundation. Their mission is to put out-of-work pianos with young households, children's centers, shelters, the elderly, and everywhere that music should exist, but doesn't. 

Tom plays piano. I play piano. We both love jazz, blues, and the New Orleans stew of rhythms and harmonies. So music is one of the common bonds between us. When Tom told me about his Piano Project, I asked if I could help.

You're reading it.

I'm asking you to do a couple of things. First, if you have a piano you don't want anymore, or know somebody who does, contact the foundation. There are a lot of used pianos out there that go wanting for someone to appreciate them. Yes, pianos have souls. 

There's one more thing you can do. Pianos for People is a finalist for a grant from Monsanto. The money would help them refurbish more pianos and get them to more people. All you need to do is vote. You can do it once a day through this Monday, May 20th. Voting is not limited to just St. Louis. Wherever you live, you can vote. Here's the link:

https://www.facebook.com/growstlouis/app_515609858503649

Music has been a huge part of my life, from the time I began taking lessons at the age of 8 (yes, they had pianos back then, not just  harpsichords) until today, when I enjoy listening to Rachmaninoff's Second, Meade Lux Lewis' boogie, Peterson's songbooks, and Benny Green play with twenty fingers, or so it seems.

I know of Tom's love for music. I know what music can mean to help shape people's lives. Pianos for People is an inspired concept. Join the chorus.

That takes me to two quotes I'd like to leave you with. 

The first is by Plato.

“Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination

and life to everything.” 

The second one is by Heinrich Heine. 

"Where words leave off, music begins."

Time to cue the music.

Listen To This

They call it "Inner Jazz." The subtitle is "Exploring the Landscape of the Soul Through the Transformative Spirit of Jazz." 

It's the Jazz thing that caught my eye. It's the Inner thing that promised to add a new dimension to the proceedings. Maybe I'm just looking for more meaning of life as the months pass all too rapidly. As Maggie Smith said, when asked how it felt to be 78, "Every meal is breakfast." The email came from Carol Beth True, superb jazz pianist, teacher and friend. She was going to be part of a jazz thing at Kirkwood United Church of Christ in Kirkwood. I made a note in my calendar. Five o'clock on a Sunday is usually wide open for me. That's four hours before Mad Men and Game of Thrones come on. And with DVR, it doesn't really matter anyway, except for the ritual. Probably a throwback to "the old days" when Thursday night was Star Trek Night, Tuesday night was Dick Van Dyke night, etc. Okay, I'll go back to Sunday night being Jack Benny night on the radio. Remember radio?

Sunday afternoon church is foreign to me. In fact, church anytime is. To say it's not even on my radar screen is an understatement. Still, the confluence of jazz and some sort of soul searching sounded appealing. I went. I listened. I let my thoughts wander. The music reached deep, starting off with "Equinox" by John Coltrane and some fine tenor sax work by Cliff Aerie. The program progressed with original tunes by him and fine solo work by Carol Beth and Cliff and Dave Troncoso on bass, Kevin Gianino contributing some very tasty work on drums. Plus a young vocalist named Arianna Aerie adding her sterling voice that delicately filled the church. The last tune was one of my favorites, "Afro Blue" by Mongo Santamaria.

There's something about "live" jazz in a church that I find very moving. Especially when coupled with a message about Our Earth. 

According to the Reverend Betsy Happel, this mingling of jazz and meditation will continue once a month. I'll probably be back there next month. A different jazz group will perform. But the spirit will be the same. The program they handed out contained several quotes, two of which I especially like and repeat here. 

John Muir: "When you tug at a single thing in nature, you find it attached to the rest of the world."

Buddha: "To live a pure unselfish life, one must count nothing as one's own in the midst of abundance." 

 Sometimes you just have to stop and listen.

The Writer I'm Going To Be

I thought I was a writer, until I heard Richard Ford speak last Friday night at the St. Louis County Library as part of their Read St. Louis Program. This, however, is not a review of the event. (I’m not a critic, though I tend to be critical at times. Ask my wife.) I’m just a guy who likes to write. I've written a few things, some of which I'm happy with, others that I can never get right, most of which I know can be better. Which leads me to often wonder what it must be like to spend time with a great writer, listen to him talk about his writing and mine, hear him read what he’s written, then apply it to what I’ve written or, better yet, what I could be writing.

I’ve never taken criticism easily, but if it were Ford, I would make an exception.

I sat with Peter Carlos. He was sitting on the aisle when I got there, empty chair next to him, and I knew I’d enjoy talking with him. In the half hour we had before Richard appeared, we talked about making movies and videos and writing and editing and teaching. He does all those things. The last time I saw Peter was when I participated in a video program called “Fade Up,” which he produces at Lindenwood. It was a conversation with Mike Wall about “Tillie’s Punctured Romance,” Charlie Chaplin and my novel.

So there we were, these two bearded guys talking creative stuff while waiting for this esteemed writer to enter the packed room, which was growing warmer by the minute. The place was electric with anticipation. I’ve been to other author events there, but this one seemed to achieve a higher level of excitement. After all, Ford has won the Pulitzer and the PEN-Faulkner award.

John Dalton, himself an excellent novelist, introduced Richard with well-chosen words. (How else would you introduce a great writer?) Richard came up to the mic, talked softly, very softly, to the point that the first short story he read was almost lost to the audience. Someone suggested he talk into the mic more directly, which he did after explaining that he talks softly, which we had all figured out, and he launched into a short story he had written some time ago, called “Reunion.” It had its roots in St. Louis and takes place in Grand Central Station in NY. Then he segued into the opening pages of his latest novel, “Canada.” I’ve read the book. Listening to him read that short segment made me want to read it again. A Q&A followed.

Here are a couple of things Mr. Ford said during the evening that struck home with me. He said every writer’s duty, during the course of his writing life, is to put everything down on paper that is important to him. That doesn’t mean opinions and self-focused thoughts, but the things in your life and your world that have meaning to you and you want to say something about. Someone asked him if he’d thought about writing a children’s book or a YA book (young adult). He essentially said “no.” He said it’s not what he’s good at, nor what he wants to write. It would be strictly a “show-offy” thing, as he called it. He knows his strengths and passions, and that’s where he wants to be. He writes every day for 4 hours in the morning and 2 hours after lunch. Every day! In a little shack/hut/cottage down the hill from his home in Maine on the edge of the water - either a lake or the ocean. Doesn’t really matter. 

Richard’s from Mississippi originally but said he doesn’t write about the South because so many others have done it better than he ever could. He mentioned Eudora Welty and William Faulkner and a couple of other writers, one of whom lived in his neighborhood. “In fact,” he said, “I wasn’t even the first one on my block to win the Pulitzer.” So he moved to Michigan, to get out of the South where his non-racist attitudes were at odds with his neighbors. 

Richard maintains a wonderful sense of humor, a strict writing discipline, and the ability to see deeply into people and relationships. I’m not very good at relationships; writing about them anyway. It takes effort. Lots of it. He’s able to capture in a few carefully chosen words what it can take me a paragraph to even get close to. One of the things I could have used along the way was a mentor. Someone who would look at my work and tell me how to improve it. It doesn’t come from open mic nights. It doesn’t happen with friends. Maybe it happens with on-line writing seminars, though I don’t believe it’s personal enough. It’s a long way from the ideal: a placid retreat amidst tall, stately trees and expansive stretches of lawn, a lake or the ocean within strolling distance, and a group of people interested in writing, brought together by men and women who “have done it” and can turn a piercing eye to my pages and pinpoint the excess, the vague, the missed opportunities, as well as the strengths, the occasionally sparkling phrase, the well-developed character. 

That muse calls to me now. “Gerry, move to Greenwich Village. Be 27 years old again, catch Basie at the Vanguard, write all night, drink espresso with unshaven guys and long-tressed women. Or find that cottage in Maine, just a stone’s throw from Richard’s hut or Stephen King’s house. Or maybe discover that cozy cottage near Carmel overlooking the Pacific that needs a caretaker in exchange for rent. There’s a place for you, somewhere a place for you.”

The voice is tempting. What I plan to do, in a more realistic frame of mind, is to buy a trailer and park it on the banks of the River Des Peres, facing west. I’ll have a stack of spiral notebooks and lots of pens and pencils. I’ll also have a laptop but no internet connection. I will escape from the demands of Facebook and Twitter and YouTube and Groupon, and deliver my written masterpieces by hand, in a binder, to an agent or publisher who has been eagerly anticipating their completion. Then, as I await the royalties and reviews, and movie offers from small, independent production companies, I will return to my trailer, pour a half-tumbler of Woodford Reserve, sit in my plaid folding chair and watch the sun set over the river while listening to Bill Evans play “If You Could See Me Now.”

Then I’ll raise my glass to Richard Ford.

Me and Mickey

I found this photo when I was digging through some old envelopes in the garage a couple days ago. There's a story behind this, one I haven't told many people and certainly one I had almost forgotten. Until now. 

The car is my 1956 Chevy Bel Air convertible. It was my first car. I was stationed in Pittsburgh at the time, a Special Services Officer, which meant I was in charge of getting teams together for tournaments, along with distributing ping pong balls we received from the Salvation Army, maintaining athletic facilities at the HQ as well as on the Nike missile sites. If our nation were ever attacked and the enemy descended on Pittsburgh, we could beat them in a ping-pong tournament for sure. Unless they were Chinese. A second lieutenant with a paddle in his hand, backed up by rugged men with wooden softball bats, badminton birdies, sharpened darts, and free passes for old movies was a deterrent not to be messed with. The word had evidently gotten out. We were never attacked.

Back to the car. On one particular winter weekend in 1958, the volleyball team and I travelled to Ft. Meade, Maryland for an important Army regional tournament. Major Theobald, our CO, had high hopes for us. We were big, we were fast, we were smart. I wore my dress greens, and kept my winter overcoat in the back "well," beneath the rear plastic window. I took three guys with me. The only one I remember is PFC Norm Mitchell, a scrawny guy from Tennessee who spit a lot, had a wicked laugh, used words and expressions I had never heard before, held military life in low esteem. Everyone called him Mitch, one of those naturally likeable guys. At the time I thought, someday I want to write a story or book about him. This is the closest I've ever come.

The other guy on the team I remember clearly was a big, black private whose name might have been James. Well over six feet, at least 200 pounds, not flabby. He was a natural born leader, but seemed interested only in leading others to the dark side. I followed him on that trip, to my embarrassment. Someday I'll remember his last name, then maybe I'll befriend him on Facebook. If he's still alive. Or not in solitary.

We got to Ft. Meade with no problem. We made it through the first three rounds looking sharp. The semi-finals were our next challenge. We won the first game easily, 21 to something in the low teens. Then the spirit left us. I don't know if we ran out of gas or got cocky or decided to screw Major Theobald, who nobody liked. The streak just ended. We lost the next two games.

"I know a good club," said James. "I know this town, got some friends there." 'This town' was Baltimore. We ended up in what I only remember as a street with lots of bars, broken sidewalks, dark alleys, shimmering neons with missing letters, and lots of people around. All ten of us - the entire team - followed James into a large bar with a juke box playing. This was 1958, remember, so it might have been some Wilson Pickett or Chuck Berry or "Rock Around the Clock," which had been out about 5 or 6 years. It sure wasn't Perry Como or Theresa Brewer. 

Our fearless leader was greeted like a returning hero, even though he had missed three spikes in that second game, which of course none of the folks at the bar knew or cared about. I remember sitting at the bar, being introduced to some of his friends, including the very pretty black lady tending bar. I was the fresh-face white second Looie in the very soul of Baltimore's night life district. I don't even remember asking for a drink. If I did, it would have been scotch, my choice of alcohol at the time. I've since developed a strong dislike for it, along with gin. The lovely barkeep with the emerging breasts and sparkling eyes set a drink in front of me. "You'll like this, honey." Most of the other guys had boiler makers: a shot of whiskey or vodka and a bottle of beer. We clicked glasses. "Here's to next year," someone said. "I hope not," I thought. I knew I'd be out in less than a year. I finished my drink while the bluesy guitar sunk into my head. And that's the last I remember.

I awoke - or came to - the next morning. Three of the guys from the team were there. I was in a bed. A strange bed, in a strange house or apartment. James was there, big, satisfied smile, as was Mitch, looking slightly hung over. "You feelin' better?" said Norm. "He needs coffee, and some flapjacks," said someone. A woman handed me a cup of coffee. The last time I had seen her she had handed me that magic drink. "Here you go, hon." I didn't touch the coffee.

So they made a fuss over me, making sure "the lieutenant feels okay" after eating something bad and getting sick and passing out. All I had was that drink and I knew how that went down. I washed up and said it was time to head back to Pittsburgh. Somehow my car had turned up outside the house. The weather was freezing, the smell of snow in the air. I hurried out to the car and saw the back window had been slashed. I opened the door. My overcoat was gone. Nobody knew anything. 

It was a long drive back to Pittsburgh. And it was my last volleyball tournament in uniform.

About two weeks later, Mitch came up to me outside the radar van on the Nike site. He had this small grin on his face, tempered with his attempt at apology. He threw me a casual salute. "Lieutenant, I feel bad about what happened over there. I'd like to help pay for the window." He tried to hand me some folded up greenbacks. I told him I didn't want his money, just an answer. "It was a mickey in my drink, right?" He nodded. "James set it up?" He looked down at his feet. "I don't really know, sir. He likes you a lot. Me? I think he did. But I don't know for sure. He didn't say nothing to any of us. Swear to God."

Like I said, I liked Mitch. I believed him. I didn't mind losing the overcoat. It was just an overcoat. But it sure hurt to see my Chevy cut like that. Happy ending: the insurance company paid for the whole thing, no deductible. A favor to a man in uniform.

                          Here's how the car looked on a better day.

"Stranger in a Stranger Land"

That’s the title of a famous Robert Heinlein science-fiction book. It’s also the way I feel as I get ready to watch the Grammy’s tonight. I won’t actually watch it all, start to finish. I’m going to DVR it. That’ll save me a lot of time and irritation. But I would like to know something about the State of Music these days.

When I was Creative Director on Budweiser, we did a lot of radio spots using recognized artists. Trouble was, I didn’t recognize half of them. And this was back in the mid-80’s. For instance, in 1988 we did Bud spots with The Nylons, Squeeze, Beat Farmers, Dave Edmunds, Ricky Van Shelton, Outloud, Jamaica Boys, Wilson Pickett. And a few others. I knew Dave and Wilson. Fortunately I had young guys in my group who knew what was going on. 

I looked at the list of nominees for this year’s Grammy’s. “Who are these people?” I wondered. Here’s an example. Fun. is one of them. No, that period isn’t a typo. It’s “Fun” with a “.” at the end. Must mean something, I’m sure. Then there’s Mumford and Sons. Very big, I know. But I have no idea what they sound like. Or how many sons there are. Or who or what Mumford is. To me it sounds like a spin-off of an old Red Foxx TV show. 

Then there are the nominees for “Best New Artist.” They are The Alabama Shakes, Fun., Hunter Hayes, The Lumineers, and Frank Ocean. I never heard any of them sing or play or shake or whatever they do. There are, however, some names I’ll know. Taylor Swift, Bruce Springstseen, Adele, Rihanna, Beyonce. Which makes me wonder: What is it with these one-named people? I don’t know when that all began. Maybe with Prince? Or maybe with Liberace. Now there was a musician for you, white piano and all. 

Other single-name nominees are Miguel, Usher, Estelle, Tamia, and Nas. I assume these are people, not groups, but who knows? I will, after tonight. I know the name Megadeth but the concept creeps me out. I also know Tom Waits and used to like him, don’t know what he’s doing now. I’m sure his voice hasn’t smoothed out.

Tell you the truth, the only category I’m comfortable with is Jazz. Those are real people, first and last names. Chick Corea, Gary Burton, Ahmad Jamal (yes, he’s still alive and recording, obviously), Pat Metheny, Bob Mintzer, Arturo Sandoval, Lluciana Souza, Bobby Sanabria (good latin big band jazz), Brad Mehldau. We’re well past the time of Monk, Prez, Bird, Miles, Duke. But they all had two names. These were nicknames.

I like what Lou Reed said about jazz. “If it has more than three chords, it’s jazz.” Also like Miles’ comment: “Do not fear mistakes. There are none.”

I’m sure jazz won’t get much air time tonight. The name of the game is ratings. Still, I’ll be watching and listening, remote in hand, thumb on the “fast forward” button, trying to soak up as much of today’s musical culture as possible, before moving on to “Downton Abbey” and “Justified.” 

Here’s a link to the Grammy nominations. Be careful, though. You might just end up a “Stranger in a Strange Land.”  But that’s cool. 2013 Grammy Nominations