Akle Salyer cut my hair every month from age 9 to 15 or so. Haircuts grew less frequent as I got older, of course, and I eventually discovered the pretty girls at the barber college in nearby Newark, leaving Akle in the dust of my adolescent hair-clippings and new-found fondness for girls running their fingers through my hair. "Sorry, Akle," I would think, as I tip-toed past his shop, "You're good, but the times, they are a changin'."
Below is the obituary I just found of my old friend Akle Salyer, the small town barber of my actual childhood home, Kirkersville, Ohio. He passed away in 2009. He was 85 years old.
Many of you know that I got into songwriting after moving to Kentucky in my 20's, and I just went with it, basing the half-fictional happenings of Pine View Heights in Kentucky, where I was then located.
There was a small mobile home community on the outskirts of Kirkersville called Pine View Trailer Court and it would become the proverbial Rome to my creative ramblings some twenty years later, all my roads leading to it in one way or another. My childhood was filled with characters, hard-working, fun-loving people who have left an indelible impression on me.
Our mobile home relocated several times before finally landing along the North side of Kirkersville along the creek bank. Akle's shop was on Main St., about a 10 minute walk away from my front door. The school bus would stop just a block away from his place, and I'd often stop there before going home, linger a bit and exchange my pennies for a few square pieces of gum that became unchewable only moments after popping them into my mouth.
I have looked everywhere online for a picture of Akle, but can't find one. But I remember him as a tall, lanky man about two-thirds legs. A long, largish nose and dark, relaxed eyes. His brown hair was always perfectly groomed, the teeth marks of his comb still visible in the late afternoon. I have the memory of him standing, talking -- always talking -- at a slight diagonal lean toward the chair, the sunlight hitting the East wall of his shop and reflecting in the large mirror.
A messy stack of well-read comic books and People Magazines rested on a table next to a mismatched row of chairs under the plate glass window. Hand-painted, arced letters announced Akle's Barber Shop on the window in red. The red and white pole turned slowly beside the door if he was open for business. If it was Sunday or Monday, or if he was golfing, the pole was still.
I always thought it strange that he had a bell above the door to announce our comings and goings. The shop was no more than 12 x 18' and the bathroom was just on the other side of the wall. He could have easily heard the door opening. But the bell, although jarring to the stillness of the place, soon became a part of the ambiance of Akle's little shop.
I think of Akle, not only when I sing "Full Moon Nights in Pine View Heights," wherein he is mentioned by name, but also other reminiscent songs such as, "In a Perfect World," or one that I've started singing lately (to be released on my next album) called "Time is a West Bound Train." When I visit my youth, Akle is always there.
These people help form who we are, and what type of person we want to be when we grow up. He didn't have a fancy diploma or a teaching license, but in a lot of ways, Akle was one of my favorite teachers. His great lesson to me was his day to day life, lived honorably and steadily. Nothing flashy. Nothing outrageous. Just real. And he lives on in my heart, as I'm sure he does in the hearts of all those whose hair -- and hearts -- he touched.
Here is the obit:
Akle Salyer
January 8, 1924 - April 11, 2009
Akle Salyer, of Kirkersville, was born January 8, 1924. He lived to be 85 years old and died on April 11, 2009. He was the son of Burley Salyer and Zola Vanderpool-Arnett both of which preceded him in death. He was married to Virginia Ethel Howard on December 24, 1945, a marriage of 63 years. Born to them were four children, two sons Billy Joe Salyer and Bobby Neal Salyer, both of which preceded him in death and two daughters Judy Gail Salyer-Norman of Columbus and Melody Ann Salyer-Gintert of Pickerington. Additional extended family includes John W. Norman and Susan K. Ziegler. He had eight grandchildren and 12 great-grandchildren.
He raised two of his grandsons Billy Salyer and Rodney Salyer and they were like sons to him. Preceded in death by one brother Elmer Salyer and one sister Phyllis Joe Minix. Survived by one sister Betty Fae Minix and brother-in-law Burt Minix of Alger, Ohio. Also, not to be overlooked was the love he gave and received from his three treasured dogs Julie, Smokey and his most precious Charlie Brown.
He was a wonderful husband and father. He proudly served in the US Army in World War II. He graduated from the Ohio State Barber College and operated his own barber shop in Kirkersville, Ohio for many years.
He loved to play golf at Harbor Hills Golf Club where he was a member for many years, bowl, fish and garden, but most of all enjoyed his family. He was liked by everyone who ever met him and he was a wonderful christian. He often told his wife, “When I leave this world, I’ll be at home with Jesus in that beautiful mansion he has prepared for me.” He will be loved and missed by all.
His family will receive friends on Monday from 2-4 and 6-8 p.m. at The Hoskinson Funeral Home, 285 E Main St in Kirkersville, where a funeral service celebrating his life will be held at 11:00 a.m. Tuesday. Burial, with full military honors, will follow at Kirkersville Cemetery.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
Our Words and the Internet
“People have always been rude, but what the internet has given us is anonymity. We can cut invisibly, harming each other at safe, unaccountable distances.”
A lot has been said recently about toning down our rhetoric. I agree wholeheartedly. Red, blue, purple, tea-colored, it doesn’t matter. We have a real problem with civility, and I think our culture’s biggest contributor isn’t talk radio or news channels, as accusers have said. Most recently, it’s the internet.
If you want to lose hope in the future of this great country, and in it’s young people, hang out for a while on YouTube, specifically reading the commentators who post their pithy vitriol under videos with anonymous handles like “luvdragon45” or “smellyal8tr119.”
People have always been rude, even obnoxious. It’s recorded in our earliest histories. What the internet has given us – and dangerously, in my opinion – is anonymity. We can cut invisibly, without seeing the effects of our words. We can harm each other at safe, unaccountable distances.
Visit any popular YouTube channel, and you can read the callous disregard for the feelings of real human beings on the other end of the video. Horrible things are written, unspeakable names are called with a few effortless keystrokes.
I'll never forget the vile, hurtful posts I read beneath a 13-year-old girl's debut YouTube video. It was forwarded to me by a mutual friend, the daughter of a co-worker singing her heart out. I can't remember the song, but it was taken from the current pop charts of that week. She was off key. She was chubby. She had a few zits. She was adorable.
Some thoughtless trolls began a campaign it seemed, a ruthless, cowardly digital smack down. Comment after comment under her video made my jaw drop in disbelief. One hopes the girl never read the comments, but as one who has his own modest little YouTube channel, I can assume that she was likely just as anxious as anyone to read feedback. If read, those words doubtless made her feel small, foolish, insignificant, unworthy, ashamed. As a Dad, my heart breaks to think about it.
The video was removed a few days later without explanation. My heart sank to think of this young, impressionable girl's light being dimmed, if even a little, by a few cavemen with more time than sense, sitting at their parents’ computer and throwing harmful words like grenades at an innocent girl who’s only crime was a desire to share a song. I wanted to give her a hug, and tell her to shake it off, but I knew it wouldn't do any good. I wanted to congratulate her on receiving her first real harsh lesson in life: that the world is full of idiots, and most of them have access to computers.
I wanted to contact each one of the anonymous critics and ask them a battery of questions, starting with, "What in this wide world makes you think you had the right to judge another person so cruelly?" and ending with "What have you ever built? What have you ever made? What have you contributed? Or do you feel that your purpose here on earth is simply to tear down what others build?"
As one who has spent untold hours developing a craft or two as a means to express myself – often in very vulnerable ways, with songs, poems and artwork that threaten to expose a little more of myself than I may be comfortable sharing – I feel I can be a somewhat authoritative ambassador on the potential harms of the accessibility of the internet. And I’ve certainly been the target of criticism. That’s the nature of the game, I guess. Not a big deal.
My attitude with YouTube critics has generally been to adopt a “pearls before swine” philosophy, made even more poignant by the fact that these are FREE pearls I’m giving away, watched at no cost to them, and harvested at large cost to me, in both time and creative energy. So Ihave little use for the feedback of cavemen. After they’ve spent 20 years developing an independent music career – or anything, for that matter – come back, we’ll talk.
But more to the point, the people I love most on this earth are folded in to every aspect of what I do creatively. You’ll hear my family on my albums, you’ll see them in my videos. All my dearest friends are a core part of what I do musically. I can no sooner separate them from my creative life than I could remove my beating heart and expect to live. So when I come across rude, insensitive remarks toward anyone I love, I tend to react. The pitbull that is inside all of us protective husbands, fathers and friends rages inside me, and I will do what I can to protect.
As an illustration of this, this weekend I disabled comments on all my videos at my YouTube channel. I hated to do it -- there were some wonderful comments on there, 99 percent of them, in fact -- but after reading some inappropriate comments, I decided it was time. It’s a shame that walls have to be erected around us like that, but so be it. It may cost me more subscribers, more YouTube notoriety, blah blah blah, but I refuse to align myself with that element of negativity. It won’t be the first time I made a career choice based on similar principles. Life is just too short, and careers even shorter.
And most sadly for me was the conversation I had with my teenage son, who told me he sees YouTube as a pretty harsh, ruthless environment. He has removed his own videos because of idiotic comments. He sees YouTube not for what it could be, a place to explore self expression, but as the last place he would ever want to express himself. This ruthless climate intimidates a lot of our young people. For every young boy posting a video of himself playing a Van Halen lick on his new guitar, there are thousands who would never think of subjecting themselves to the public scrutiny and potential smack downs of the trolling cavemen out there -- one more thing to separate performers from wannabes, I guess. The internet has brought about more opportunity for the young, independent artist, as long as their skin is sufficiently thick.
I try and live so that my words and actions bring no harm to people, and it’s my obligation as a human being to protect others I love from the same. I want it said that the world was a better place with my having lived in it. And it’s my hope that the careless authors of harmful rhetoric will one day mature and realize what harm can be done with words. And it’s my hope that in the meantime, the rest of us will be there to teach them. Until then, I guess I'll just use my delete key.
A lot has been said recently about toning down our rhetoric. I agree wholeheartedly. Red, blue, purple, tea-colored, it doesn’t matter. We have a real problem with civility, and I think our culture’s biggest contributor isn’t talk radio or news channels, as accusers have said. Most recently, it’s the internet.
If you want to lose hope in the future of this great country, and in it’s young people, hang out for a while on YouTube, specifically reading the commentators who post their pithy vitriol under videos with anonymous handles like “luvdragon45” or “smellyal8tr119.”
People have always been rude, even obnoxious. It’s recorded in our earliest histories. What the internet has given us – and dangerously, in my opinion – is anonymity. We can cut invisibly, without seeing the effects of our words. We can harm each other at safe, unaccountable distances.
Visit any popular YouTube channel, and you can read the callous disregard for the feelings of real human beings on the other end of the video. Horrible things are written, unspeakable names are called with a few effortless keystrokes.
I'll never forget the vile, hurtful posts I read beneath a 13-year-old girl's debut YouTube video. It was forwarded to me by a mutual friend, the daughter of a co-worker singing her heart out. I can't remember the song, but it was taken from the current pop charts of that week. She was off key. She was chubby. She had a few zits. She was adorable.
Some thoughtless trolls began a campaign it seemed, a ruthless, cowardly digital smack down. Comment after comment under her video made my jaw drop in disbelief. One hopes the girl never read the comments, but as one who has his own modest little YouTube channel, I can assume that she was likely just as anxious as anyone to read feedback. If read, those words doubtless made her feel small, foolish, insignificant, unworthy, ashamed. As a Dad, my heart breaks to think about it.
The video was removed a few days later without explanation. My heart sank to think of this young, impressionable girl's light being dimmed, if even a little, by a few cavemen with more time than sense, sitting at their parents’ computer and throwing harmful words like grenades at an innocent girl who’s only crime was a desire to share a song. I wanted to give her a hug, and tell her to shake it off, but I knew it wouldn't do any good. I wanted to congratulate her on receiving her first real harsh lesson in life: that the world is full of idiots, and most of them have access to computers.
I wanted to contact each one of the anonymous critics and ask them a battery of questions, starting with, "What in this wide world makes you think you had the right to judge another person so cruelly?" and ending with "What have you ever built? What have you ever made? What have you contributed? Or do you feel that your purpose here on earth is simply to tear down what others build?"
As one who has spent untold hours developing a craft or two as a means to express myself – often in very vulnerable ways, with songs, poems and artwork that threaten to expose a little more of myself than I may be comfortable sharing – I feel I can be a somewhat authoritative ambassador on the potential harms of the accessibility of the internet. And I’ve certainly been the target of criticism. That’s the nature of the game, I guess. Not a big deal.
My attitude with YouTube critics has generally been to adopt a “pearls before swine” philosophy, made even more poignant by the fact that these are FREE pearls I’m giving away, watched at no cost to them, and harvested at large cost to me, in both time and creative energy. So Ihave little use for the feedback of cavemen. After they’ve spent 20 years developing an independent music career – or anything, for that matter – come back, we’ll talk.
But more to the point, the people I love most on this earth are folded in to every aspect of what I do creatively. You’ll hear my family on my albums, you’ll see them in my videos. All my dearest friends are a core part of what I do musically. I can no sooner separate them from my creative life than I could remove my beating heart and expect to live. So when I come across rude, insensitive remarks toward anyone I love, I tend to react. The pitbull that is inside all of us protective husbands, fathers and friends rages inside me, and I will do what I can to protect.
As an illustration of this, this weekend I disabled comments on all my videos at my YouTube channel. I hated to do it -- there were some wonderful comments on there, 99 percent of them, in fact -- but after reading some inappropriate comments, I decided it was time. It’s a shame that walls have to be erected around us like that, but so be it. It may cost me more subscribers, more YouTube notoriety, blah blah blah, but I refuse to align myself with that element of negativity. It won’t be the first time I made a career choice based on similar principles. Life is just too short, and careers even shorter.
And most sadly for me was the conversation I had with my teenage son, who told me he sees YouTube as a pretty harsh, ruthless environment. He has removed his own videos because of idiotic comments. He sees YouTube not for what it could be, a place to explore self expression, but as the last place he would ever want to express himself. This ruthless climate intimidates a lot of our young people. For every young boy posting a video of himself playing a Van Halen lick on his new guitar, there are thousands who would never think of subjecting themselves to the public scrutiny and potential smack downs of the trolling cavemen out there -- one more thing to separate performers from wannabes, I guess. The internet has brought about more opportunity for the young, independent artist, as long as their skin is sufficiently thick.
I try and live so that my words and actions bring no harm to people, and it’s my obligation as a human being to protect others I love from the same. I want it said that the world was a better place with my having lived in it. And it’s my hope that the careless authors of harmful rhetoric will one day mature and realize what harm can be done with words. And it’s my hope that in the meantime, the rest of us will be there to teach them. Until then, I guess I'll just use my delete key.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Music is a Light in the Darkness
Music has been a vehicle for me to see the most amazing places and meet the most wonderful people. Life is indeed a Field Trip, and I'm like a wide-eyed school boy with his face pressed to the bus window, taking it all in. But sometimes what we see along the way is dark and troubling.
My good friend Edgar Cruz is not only a great guitar player, but a great soul as well. I'm thankful to be counted among his friends. As I'm heading back to his home town of Oklahoma City this weekend for another round of shows with him and his friends (and putting together another tour with Edgar in California in February), I couldn't help but think back on a concert we did last year in Knoxville at a Unitarian church.
A few weeks before our arrival, a man had walked in and opened fire on the congregation, killing two people and wounding several more on a Sunday morning. It was horrible. The gunman had political and personal reasons for the attack. Unitarians are liberal as a rule and open to alternative lifestyles, to which he reportedly objected.
Our concert was booked through an outside promoter, a member of the local guitar association, and had been scheduled for months. When we got there, the mood was tense, and the usually open, gregarious members were on their guard, a few of them even mentioning to me how they hated the change in atmosphere brought on by the recent tragedy.
Later that evening as Edgar and I played, we could feel the mood change in the room. We could sense a relaxation, a letting down of the guard that protected them from a cold hard outside world.
It was a little thing, really. Just a 90 minute concert, two guys with guitars and some stories to tell. And I don't know if anyone remembers it so keenly as me, but that was a night I'll never forget.
As I played, I looked out over the faces in the crowd. I rewound the events of the day to the moment I first came into the Church, carrying my guitar case and gig bag, stepping around a small youth group who were making chalk drawings on the sidewalk outside.
One young man had drawn a large rainbow, with the words "God Loves Everyone." And I couldn't help but wonder who he was thinking about when he wrote those words. No doubt he was thinking of the victims, people he had known, with whom he had worshiped -- but he may very well have been thinking of the shooter as well, struggling with the notion of forgiveness he had been taught within those very walls.
My heart broke as I approached the door to find it locked tight on a sunny Saturday afternoon. A member of the church whose turn it was for security detail stepped up to unlock the door and let me in. He asked for my name, and he checked with another inside who knew we were coming. The man seemed particularly concerned about my guitar. (I later learned the killer had concealed his gun in a guitar case.)
Yeah, this is dark stuff. Man's inhumanity to man. It's horrible. It can cause one to lose hope in mankind althogether.
Until you're there.
Until you're sitting among them weeks later, seeing for yourself the smiling, healing faces lit warmly by the tender light of each other's support. In a small way I felt connected to that rainbow of humanity. As members of a family, we feel each others' pain, we share in each others' successes.
To me that's what makes these places -- sanctuaries, we call them -- holy.
And I'm thankful that music has taken me to places of light. When the world can seem covered at times in darkness, we need all the light we can get.
Today my thoughts are with anyone in pain. Let your mind find a favorite song, and put the needle down on the vinyl and let it play. Okay, for those who found that analogy too antiquated, find your brain's favorite iTunes playlist and put it on shuffle. ;-)
Have a good day, and take care of each other.
My good friend Edgar Cruz is not only a great guitar player, but a great soul as well. I'm thankful to be counted among his friends. As I'm heading back to his home town of Oklahoma City this weekend for another round of shows with him and his friends (and putting together another tour with Edgar in California in February), I couldn't help but think back on a concert we did last year in Knoxville at a Unitarian church.
A few weeks before our arrival, a man had walked in and opened fire on the congregation, killing two people and wounding several more on a Sunday morning. It was horrible. The gunman had political and personal reasons for the attack. Unitarians are liberal as a rule and open to alternative lifestyles, to which he reportedly objected.
Our concert was booked through an outside promoter, a member of the local guitar association, and had been scheduled for months. When we got there, the mood was tense, and the usually open, gregarious members were on their guard, a few of them even mentioning to me how they hated the change in atmosphere brought on by the recent tragedy.
Later that evening as Edgar and I played, we could feel the mood change in the room. We could sense a relaxation, a letting down of the guard that protected them from a cold hard outside world.
It was a little thing, really. Just a 90 minute concert, two guys with guitars and some stories to tell. And I don't know if anyone remembers it so keenly as me, but that was a night I'll never forget.
As I played, I looked out over the faces in the crowd. I rewound the events of the day to the moment I first came into the Church, carrying my guitar case and gig bag, stepping around a small youth group who were making chalk drawings on the sidewalk outside.
One young man had drawn a large rainbow, with the words "God Loves Everyone." And I couldn't help but wonder who he was thinking about when he wrote those words. No doubt he was thinking of the victims, people he had known, with whom he had worshiped -- but he may very well have been thinking of the shooter as well, struggling with the notion of forgiveness he had been taught within those very walls.
My heart broke as I approached the door to find it locked tight on a sunny Saturday afternoon. A member of the church whose turn it was for security detail stepped up to unlock the door and let me in. He asked for my name, and he checked with another inside who knew we were coming. The man seemed particularly concerned about my guitar. (I later learned the killer had concealed his gun in a guitar case.)
Yeah, this is dark stuff. Man's inhumanity to man. It's horrible. It can cause one to lose hope in mankind althogether.
Until you're there.
Until you're sitting among them weeks later, seeing for yourself the smiling, healing faces lit warmly by the tender light of each other's support. In a small way I felt connected to that rainbow of humanity. As members of a family, we feel each others' pain, we share in each others' successes.
To me that's what makes these places -- sanctuaries, we call them -- holy.
And I'm thankful that music has taken me to places of light. When the world can seem covered at times in darkness, we need all the light we can get.
Today my thoughts are with anyone in pain. Let your mind find a favorite song, and put the needle down on the vinyl and let it play. Okay, for those who found that analogy too antiquated, find your brain's favorite iTunes playlist and put it on shuffle. ;-)
Have a good day, and take care of each other.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Nolan's Conclusion
I Have a Friend I’ve Never Met Named Nolan - Part 3
The Conclusion to An Interrupted Journey of Friendship
It’s just after 10 PM on a cold February Saturday night. My wife and I have just returned from a wedding reception. The lovely daughter of some friends of ours, still in her white dress, and her tired, but smiling young husband greeted us at the door as we came into their home, filled with family and friends.
I am still seeing their smiling, fearless faces now as I sit here staring into the snow white screen of my computer, the cursor blinking at me impatiently.
You see, I am trying to write the conclusion to a story, but I want it to end differently. I am trying to find light and hope in what has become anything but a happy ending.
I have known Nolan’s fate for weeks now, but have been unable to see anything positive in what I have learned. I have printed everything I know about him, page after page from Facebook and other web sites. I keep it all in a green binder I pull out of my backpack during quiet moments at home, in hotels, on a plane. I have looked for meaning and found only questions, until tonight. But more on that later.
I imagine it’s okay to release Nolan’s real name now. I started by using an alias because I was writing about sensitive and personal things, his wife’s fight with and ultimate death to cancer. I was touched by the outpouring of love and support I saw on his Facebook page, and I wanted to write about how online social networking can give us insight into the human condition. But most of all, I wanted to share what I learned from him; namely that we must love and appreciate the people in our lives now, today, because we don’t know what will happen tomorrow. Indeed. In the aftermath of what he had gone through with his wife, Nolan’s responses to his friends were in turn, touching, real, and humble. I have since learned from mutual friends that this was his nature.
The man I never met, but befriended on Facebook, is named Clete Haegert, and he followed his wife Marjorie in death on December 17th.
To pick up the story where I left off a few weeks ago, I have to go back to Facebook. As I mentioned, on December 15th, Clete had posted that someone had broken into his home while he was away at a Titan’s game. Then, nothing from him.
I was shocked when I got back to his page on December 22nd to read the posting of Clete’s funeral and visitation arrangements. My first thought was that Clete, overcome with grief, had ended his life. Dumfounded, I perused his page, scrolling down the posts – going back in time – to put the pieces together. There weren’t many pieces. There were only the sad exclamations of heartbreak from longtime friends, new friends, and poignantly for me, Facebook-only friends like myself – folks who had never met Clete in person, but had read his posts and been impressed enough to want to get to know this wise, insightful man.
As I continued to read posts on his page back on December 22nd, one caught my eye, becoming the first puzzle piece in what would become a dizzying amount of information in a heart-wrenching puzzle: “Oh, Clete, we miss you so much! Who would do such a thing?”
I scrolled down further to read the comments of a puzzled friend who had just heard the news and asked what happened. The answer came in one brief, cold line from a family friend: “He was found 12/17 murdered in his home.”
What raced through my mind is no doubt what’s racing through yours. How could someone do this? Knowing what he’d just gone through, what he’d survived, this was a terrible stroke of luck.
Reporter Wayne Thomas of The Tullahoma News reported it this way:
Three Nashville area residents were arrested Saturday in connection with a burglary that occurred five days before a murder at their stepfather’s residence in Winchester. Cletus George Haegert was found dead Thursday morning in his affluent neighborhood in the Hopkins Point subdivision near Winchester by his stepson James Harris, who had driven from Brentwood to check on Haegert when he could not reach him by phone.
Margie Regina Sherrer, 58 of Gallatin, Delora Lynne Woods, 51 and her 32-year-old son Robert Glenn Ingram (relatives of Clete's late wife) of La Vergne were arrested on charges of aggravated burglary of the Haegert’s residence on Dec. 13. The three are charged with entering the residence while Haegert attended a Titan’s football game. (A later report states the three were arrested for aggravated burglary and later released on bond.)
The 68-year-old songwriter was found on the floor of his home. An autopsy by the state medical examiner revealed that Haegert died of multiple gunshot wounds. (It was later revealed that Clete was shot in the back, and a handgun was found on the floor beside his lifeless body. Nothing I have seen to date mentions ownership of the gun, whether it was Clete’s or his killer’s.)
The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation spent almost 12 hours at Haegert’s residence last Thursday night and early Friday morning gathering evidence in the case. (I keep watching for news on the indictment or motive of Clete's killer(s), but everything I read contains words like "pending" and "still under investigation.")
Now more than ever, I needed to know about this man whose words of strength and hope tugged at my heart so many weeks ago.
Google searches don’t pull up a lot about Cletus “Clete” Haegert. Most of what I found is in conjunction with another man, Bob Frank, who had co-written songs with Clete for his 1972 debut album with Vanguard Records and throughout Frank’s music career. Frank has recently staged a come back, citing Haegert as not only a collaborator but friend. I went to Frank’s website. Pictures of a younger, smiling Haegert among a cast of music row insiders revealed more than a few pieces of this growing puzzle I was so hungry for.
Born and raised in Oklahoma, Clete set out for Nashville in the late 60’s to claim his fame and fortune. He was signed on as a songwriter in 1968 for Tree Publishing in Nashville, where he penned many moderate country hits for artists throughout the 70’s. Later Clete would publish songs for the late cowboy crooner Chris LeDoux.
He never wrote a number one hit, or became a household name. More importantly, it seemed Clete had an endless list of lifelong friends, folks with whom he’d weathered many storms and shared many wonderful memories. A lot can be learned about a man by the company he keeps, especially when it is company he has kept consistently throughout his life. Anyone in the music business can tell you, collaborators are many, but friends are few, and they’re never around long enough.
Other musical projects consumed Clete’s energies over the years. In 1985 he formed the country rock band White Crow, playing regionally and recording sporadically over several years. Capitalizing on his Irish roots, Clete formed Clete O’Hagerty and his Irish Derry Aires. They were a favorite Nashville attraction, especially on St. Patrick’s Day, and the act earned him the irresistible title, “Dean of Irish Honky Tonk.”
Here is a song from Bob Frank’s debut album, long out of print, that was co-written by Clete. This is an MP3 from my own iPod, collected with the help of a musicologist friend who has a knack for procuring rare and precious artifacts from lost civilizations of rock and roll, folk and country music. I love the natural storytelling quality of these songs, and the timeless nature of the production. This is a short, humorous moral tale about how we should treat a brother when he's down on his luck.
http://www.unhitched.com/Before_The_Trash_Truck_Comes.mp3
I have since befriended on Facebook a number of Clete’s close friends as a result of this story. All have been kind and thoughtful – reflections, no doubt, of their friend. Birds of a feather, so to speak, and not at all surprising.
After a concert I performed recently in Oklahoma City, I was approached by a man who had moved from Nashville years ago. He had been a songwriter on music row in the 1970’s. I dropped Clete’s name, and it induced a warm smile. “Yeah, I knew Clete,” he said. “Great guy.” I didn’t divulge Clete’s fate, having been so warmed by the man’s smile. I let the recollection of Clete hang in the air around us until the subject of conversation changed.
So this is the light I have found in this tragic story: We live on. Despite our having been taken – sometimes violently – our memory is carried on in the hearts of everyone who loved us, anyone we have met with whom we’ve left an impression.
And my thoughts return to the wedding reception we attended earlier tonight, where a houseful of people gathered to launch a young couple off into a life of happiness – and sadness, prosperity – and struggle, light – and dark. It’s a journey each of us have taken and will continue to take if we live long enough. We have all been there once, standing at the threshold of adulthood, apprehensive yet giddy about the future, awash in the innocent light of youth.
Darkness is the absence of light, and it is always there – until, that is, a candle, or a light bulb, or a flood lamp, or the sun appears to cancel it out. Darkness flees in an instant when faced with the irresistible presence of light.
Evil, despicable acts of violence destroys only the body, but not the core of who we are. Like the light of a candle, the light of who we are is carried on within our loved ones.
Darkness prevails only until someone takes the effort – the brief, minimal effort – to strike a match and light a candle. That’s all it takes. Light in the tiniest form, reflected in the loving twinkle of a friend’s eye for instance, is all we need to cancel out the darkness. In this small and simple way can light be passed on until the darkness is a bitter but receding memory.
And I see this light as I look at Clete’s online picture album lovingly put together by his sister just before the funeral. There, on one of the last pages, Clete stands with his daughter at her wedding. Their smiles mingle in my mind with those of my friends at tonight’s reception, creating a kaleidoscope of light and hope.
And I realize it is all I will need to cancel out the darkness.
Cletus George Haegert
1941 – 2009
Rest in Peace, my friend.
The Conclusion to An Interrupted Journey of Friendship
It’s just after 10 PM on a cold February Saturday night. My wife and I have just returned from a wedding reception. The lovely daughter of some friends of ours, still in her white dress, and her tired, but smiling young husband greeted us at the door as we came into their home, filled with family and friends.
I am still seeing their smiling, fearless faces now as I sit here staring into the snow white screen of my computer, the cursor blinking at me impatiently.
You see, I am trying to write the conclusion to a story, but I want it to end differently. I am trying to find light and hope in what has become anything but a happy ending.
I have known Nolan’s fate for weeks now, but have been unable to see anything positive in what I have learned. I have printed everything I know about him, page after page from Facebook and other web sites. I keep it all in a green binder I pull out of my backpack during quiet moments at home, in hotels, on a plane. I have looked for meaning and found only questions, until tonight. But more on that later.
I imagine it’s okay to release Nolan’s real name now. I started by using an alias because I was writing about sensitive and personal things, his wife’s fight with and ultimate death to cancer. I was touched by the outpouring of love and support I saw on his Facebook page, and I wanted to write about how online social networking can give us insight into the human condition. But most of all, I wanted to share what I learned from him; namely that we must love and appreciate the people in our lives now, today, because we don’t know what will happen tomorrow. Indeed. In the aftermath of what he had gone through with his wife, Nolan’s responses to his friends were in turn, touching, real, and humble. I have since learned from mutual friends that this was his nature.
The man I never met, but befriended on Facebook, is named Clete Haegert, and he followed his wife Marjorie in death on December 17th.
To pick up the story where I left off a few weeks ago, I have to go back to Facebook. As I mentioned, on December 15th, Clete had posted that someone had broken into his home while he was away at a Titan’s game. Then, nothing from him.
I was shocked when I got back to his page on December 22nd to read the posting of Clete’s funeral and visitation arrangements. My first thought was that Clete, overcome with grief, had ended his life. Dumfounded, I perused his page, scrolling down the posts – going back in time – to put the pieces together. There weren’t many pieces. There were only the sad exclamations of heartbreak from longtime friends, new friends, and poignantly for me, Facebook-only friends like myself – folks who had never met Clete in person, but had read his posts and been impressed enough to want to get to know this wise, insightful man.
As I continued to read posts on his page back on December 22nd, one caught my eye, becoming the first puzzle piece in what would become a dizzying amount of information in a heart-wrenching puzzle: “Oh, Clete, we miss you so much! Who would do such a thing?”
I scrolled down further to read the comments of a puzzled friend who had just heard the news and asked what happened. The answer came in one brief, cold line from a family friend: “He was found 12/17 murdered in his home.”
What raced through my mind is no doubt what’s racing through yours. How could someone do this? Knowing what he’d just gone through, what he’d survived, this was a terrible stroke of luck.
Reporter Wayne Thomas of The Tullahoma News reported it this way:
Three Nashville area residents were arrested Saturday in connection with a burglary that occurred five days before a murder at their stepfather’s residence in Winchester. Cletus George Haegert was found dead Thursday morning in his affluent neighborhood in the Hopkins Point subdivision near Winchester by his stepson James Harris, who had driven from Brentwood to check on Haegert when he could not reach him by phone.
Margie Regina Sherrer, 58 of Gallatin, Delora Lynne Woods, 51 and her 32-year-old son Robert Glenn Ingram (relatives of Clete's late wife) of La Vergne were arrested on charges of aggravated burglary of the Haegert’s residence on Dec. 13. The three are charged with entering the residence while Haegert attended a Titan’s football game. (A later report states the three were arrested for aggravated burglary and later released on bond.)
The 68-year-old songwriter was found on the floor of his home. An autopsy by the state medical examiner revealed that Haegert died of multiple gunshot wounds. (It was later revealed that Clete was shot in the back, and a handgun was found on the floor beside his lifeless body. Nothing I have seen to date mentions ownership of the gun, whether it was Clete’s or his killer’s.)
The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation spent almost 12 hours at Haegert’s residence last Thursday night and early Friday morning gathering evidence in the case. (I keep watching for news on the indictment or motive of Clete's killer(s), but everything I read contains words like "pending" and "still under investigation.")
Now more than ever, I needed to know about this man whose words of strength and hope tugged at my heart so many weeks ago.
Google searches don’t pull up a lot about Cletus “Clete” Haegert. Most of what I found is in conjunction with another man, Bob Frank, who had co-written songs with Clete for his 1972 debut album with Vanguard Records and throughout Frank’s music career. Frank has recently staged a come back, citing Haegert as not only a collaborator but friend. I went to Frank’s website. Pictures of a younger, smiling Haegert among a cast of music row insiders revealed more than a few pieces of this growing puzzle I was so hungry for.
Born and raised in Oklahoma, Clete set out for Nashville in the late 60’s to claim his fame and fortune. He was signed on as a songwriter in 1968 for Tree Publishing in Nashville, where he penned many moderate country hits for artists throughout the 70’s. Later Clete would publish songs for the late cowboy crooner Chris LeDoux.
He never wrote a number one hit, or became a household name. More importantly, it seemed Clete had an endless list of lifelong friends, folks with whom he’d weathered many storms and shared many wonderful memories. A lot can be learned about a man by the company he keeps, especially when it is company he has kept consistently throughout his life. Anyone in the music business can tell you, collaborators are many, but friends are few, and they’re never around long enough.
Other musical projects consumed Clete’s energies over the years. In 1985 he formed the country rock band White Crow, playing regionally and recording sporadically over several years. Capitalizing on his Irish roots, Clete formed Clete O’Hagerty and his Irish Derry Aires. They were a favorite Nashville attraction, especially on St. Patrick’s Day, and the act earned him the irresistible title, “Dean of Irish Honky Tonk.”
Here is a song from Bob Frank’s debut album, long out of print, that was co-written by Clete. This is an MP3 from my own iPod, collected with the help of a musicologist friend who has a knack for procuring rare and precious artifacts from lost civilizations of rock and roll, folk and country music. I love the natural storytelling quality of these songs, and the timeless nature of the production. This is a short, humorous moral tale about how we should treat a brother when he's down on his luck.
http://www.unhitched.com/Before_The_Trash_Truck_Comes.mp3
I have since befriended on Facebook a number of Clete’s close friends as a result of this story. All have been kind and thoughtful – reflections, no doubt, of their friend. Birds of a feather, so to speak, and not at all surprising.
After a concert I performed recently in Oklahoma City, I was approached by a man who had moved from Nashville years ago. He had been a songwriter on music row in the 1970’s. I dropped Clete’s name, and it induced a warm smile. “Yeah, I knew Clete,” he said. “Great guy.” I didn’t divulge Clete’s fate, having been so warmed by the man’s smile. I let the recollection of Clete hang in the air around us until the subject of conversation changed.
So this is the light I have found in this tragic story: We live on. Despite our having been taken – sometimes violently – our memory is carried on in the hearts of everyone who loved us, anyone we have met with whom we’ve left an impression.
And my thoughts return to the wedding reception we attended earlier tonight, where a houseful of people gathered to launch a young couple off into a life of happiness – and sadness, prosperity – and struggle, light – and dark. It’s a journey each of us have taken and will continue to take if we live long enough. We have all been there once, standing at the threshold of adulthood, apprehensive yet giddy about the future, awash in the innocent light of youth.
Darkness is the absence of light, and it is always there – until, that is, a candle, or a light bulb, or a flood lamp, or the sun appears to cancel it out. Darkness flees in an instant when faced with the irresistible presence of light.
Evil, despicable acts of violence destroys only the body, but not the core of who we are. Like the light of a candle, the light of who we are is carried on within our loved ones.
Darkness prevails only until someone takes the effort – the brief, minimal effort – to strike a match and light a candle. That’s all it takes. Light in the tiniest form, reflected in the loving twinkle of a friend’s eye for instance, is all we need to cancel out the darkness. In this small and simple way can light be passed on until the darkness is a bitter but receding memory.
And I see this light as I look at Clete’s online picture album lovingly put together by his sister just before the funeral. There, on one of the last pages, Clete stands with his daughter at her wedding. Their smiles mingle in my mind with those of my friends at tonight’s reception, creating a kaleidoscope of light and hope.
And I realize it is all I will need to cancel out the darkness.
Cletus George Haegert
1941 – 2009
Rest in Peace, my friend.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
I Have a Friend I've Never Met Named Nolan - Part Two
Facebook provides a window into our lives and hearts.
Back in December, I wrote about a man named Nolan (fictitious name) who I had "friended" on Facebook. (The original blog post was called "I Have a Friend I've Never Met Named Nolan," and it is included just below this post.)
Facebook has a strange way of giving one insight into the personal lives of people, glimpses really, into what they might be going through on a daily basis.
Nolan's wife had lost her battle with cancer just before Thanksgiving, and I scrolled through the many posts from friends expressing their sadness. One post particularly caught my eye. A fellow musician and songwriter had expressed herself awkwardly but beautifully with this stream of consciousness: "Warm Summer Sun Shine Kindly Here; Warm Southern Wind Blow Softly Here..."
It struck me when I read that post, that words of commiseration, typed into a response block on Facebook are no easier to come by than when we are face to face. I have felt this way so many times, facing a grieving loved one at a funeral. My words blurt out from my mouth in maddening inadequacy until I feel like I'm a preschooler, unequipped to express even the slightest degree of emotion. Words like "warm," and "sunshine" emerge to somehow express what you'd want that person to feel right now, rather than pain and cold and darkness. Nothing comes close to expressing how we feel in these situations. Words do nothing for us. Only actions help. Only hugs. Only shared tears.
And time.
Days later, Nolan himself posts: "Believe in yourself. Follow your dreams. Just always remember, 'Hope is the first step on the road to disappointment.'"
Friends responded to this in a cascade of encouragement. One friend commented that, "I'm happy to see you even mention hope at this point in time..." Another friend listed all the people who love him and were there for him.
Nolan's response, in part, was, "God bless you folks. I'm taking things one day at a time. As long as I keep occupied it's better. Then when I slow down reality strikes and I realize I'm running on empty..." Nolan uploads a picture of his late wife a day later, calling her the angel who watches over him.
Then nothing.
On December 14th, just 11 days before Christmas, Nolan posts, "I wonder if whoever broke into my home on the weekend found what they were looking for?"
Responses flooded in. Friends humorously listed their alibis, adding the iconic wink made with a semi colon and parenthetic smile. Others expressed shock, adding "That's terrible! Nothing like kicking a guy when he's down!" But some responses were ominous. One friend warned Nolan to be careful, saying that "putting personal information on facebook can alert people that you're not home, etc."
One last post said simply, "It is always someone you know... almost always. LOL."
That was December 15th.
There was no response from Nolan.
There was no activity on Nolan's page other than the ubiquitous blessings, gifts and invites to join Farmville or Mafia Wars.
I was beginning to worry about Nolan, this friend I'd never met. I found myself thinking about him often, even talking to my wife about him over dinner and at the bathroom sink as we got ready for work in the mornings. I resolved that I would "make his acquaintance," by actually sending him a message and letting him know how touched I was by his life, his friends, and what he had recently gone through.
TO BE CONTINUED
-------------------------------------------
Part One, posted on Wednesday, December 9, 2009
I Have a Friend I've Never Met Named Nolan
(Nolan's name and the details have been changed here, for obvious reasons)
Facebook can be a strange microcosm of real life, with so many crossroads and intersections.
I have Facebook "friends" I've never met in real life, people who found me through a "mutual friend," who may have heard my music and liked a song, or who have just signed up for friendship to stay in touch with their people. Reasons vary, but in this digital world, we often are "friends" with strangers. I meet Facebook friends at my concerts, and we enjoy the immediacy of the bond the internet provides. We are a community, and communities share things, all things, with each other.
At any rate, I occasionally find myself stumbling into the lives of others after their response to a mutual friend has made me smile, or wince. Their Facebook page – like mine, like yours – exposes who we are in slices. Pictures, status updates, and our friends (the company we keep) can say a lot about a person, including comments and replies which are often meaningful signposts and insights into the human condition.
Although we've never met, a man from Kentucky named Nolan is a friend of mine. And after only a few minutes this morning, I feel like I've known him for a very long time. But most importantly, without ever meeting, Nolan taught me something very important. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
After reading Nolan's witty, but sad comment on the wall of a mutual friend, he piqued my interest, and I hopped over to his page. His picture looked familiar, so I wanted to see if maybe our paths had crossed.
Now, as a Facebook user yourself, this story likely makes you feel vulnerable, and that's understandable. Friendship of any kind can be a very vulnerable thing. And just so you know, I don't do this every day, just jump into someone's life like I'm going through their drawers and closets. ha. But as a storyteller and songwriter, I am a naturally curious observer of people. Every person is a living, breathing story, most often an amazing one, with beauty, light, sadness and darkness all rolled up into one heart, one soul. I love people. I love stories. To me, it's all the same thing.
Now, with Facebook, the most recent posts are placed at the top of the page as you know, so if you read and scroll down, you will get a "rewind" experience, almost as if watching a movie backwards, the movie of someone's life over the last several days or weeks. This was my experience this morning.
Nolan's relationship status resolutely states that he is married. His status picture is a lovely duet of himself and his beautiful wife smiling in happy times, maybe a decade or so ago. The scanned picture is just a bit faded and the clothing dated to the late 90's.
His posts were short at the top of his page, with friends replying that he was in their prayers, to call if he needed them.
Scrolling down, there was nothing, a long break, with friends posting comments on his wall like "Hey buddy, haven't heard from you in a while. What's going on?" Some of the comments were like this: "Even though we haven't met (in person), I feel like I've known you all my life. My thoughts are with you at this difficult time."
Then more. The posts were dense, with replies like "Ditto, my friend. Take care of yourself. I'm praying for you."
Then, the horrible post in lower case letters with no punctuation, announcing the funeral services of his wife, followed by streams of support and comfort, replies by friends that they'll be there, that he is in their thoughts.
Then, scrolling further down the page, several struggling requests that his friends keep her in their prayers, saying helplessly that, "We are holding on, but we need a miracle."
My guilt-laden perusal through someone's life was interrupted by a phone call. It was my wife. She had news about something pressing, something important, the details of which I can't recall anymore. I stopped her and told her I loved her, that I appreciated her for putting up with me. In her usual non-plussed way, she tried to brush away the moment, but I wouldn't let her. She asked what prompted me to say this. I paused and said, "A friend just got me thinking."
Thanks, Nolan. My thoughts and prayers are with you too.
Facebook provides a window into our lives and hearts.
Back in December, I wrote about a man named Nolan (fictitious name) who I had "friended" on Facebook. (The original blog post was called "I Have a Friend I've Never Met Named Nolan," and it is included just below this post.)
Facebook has a strange way of giving one insight into the personal lives of people, glimpses really, into what they might be going through on a daily basis.
Nolan's wife had lost her battle with cancer just before Thanksgiving, and I scrolled through the many posts from friends expressing their sadness. One post particularly caught my eye. A fellow musician and songwriter had expressed herself awkwardly but beautifully with this stream of consciousness: "Warm Summer Sun Shine Kindly Here; Warm Southern Wind Blow Softly Here..."
It struck me when I read that post, that words of commiseration, typed into a response block on Facebook are no easier to come by than when we are face to face. I have felt this way so many times, facing a grieving loved one at a funeral. My words blurt out from my mouth in maddening inadequacy until I feel like I'm a preschooler, unequipped to express even the slightest degree of emotion. Words like "warm," and "sunshine" emerge to somehow express what you'd want that person to feel right now, rather than pain and cold and darkness. Nothing comes close to expressing how we feel in these situations. Words do nothing for us. Only actions help. Only hugs. Only shared tears.
And time.
Days later, Nolan himself posts: "Believe in yourself. Follow your dreams. Just always remember, 'Hope is the first step on the road to disappointment.'"
Friends responded to this in a cascade of encouragement. One friend commented that, "I'm happy to see you even mention hope at this point in time..." Another friend listed all the people who love him and were there for him.
Nolan's response, in part, was, "God bless you folks. I'm taking things one day at a time. As long as I keep occupied it's better. Then when I slow down reality strikes and I realize I'm running on empty..." Nolan uploads a picture of his late wife a day later, calling her the angel who watches over him.
Then nothing.
On December 14th, just 11 days before Christmas, Nolan posts, "I wonder if whoever broke into my home on the weekend found what they were looking for?"
Responses flooded in. Friends humorously listed their alibis, adding the iconic wink made with a semi colon and parenthetic smile. Others expressed shock, adding "That's terrible! Nothing like kicking a guy when he's down!" But some responses were ominous. One friend warned Nolan to be careful, saying that "putting personal information on facebook can alert people that you're not home, etc."
One last post said simply, "It is always someone you know... almost always. LOL."
That was December 15th.
There was no response from Nolan.
There was no activity on Nolan's page other than the ubiquitous blessings, gifts and invites to join Farmville or Mafia Wars.
I was beginning to worry about Nolan, this friend I'd never met. I found myself thinking about him often, even talking to my wife about him over dinner and at the bathroom sink as we got ready for work in the mornings. I resolved that I would "make his acquaintance," by actually sending him a message and letting him know how touched I was by his life, his friends, and what he had recently gone through.
TO BE CONTINUED
-------------------------------------------
Part One, posted on Wednesday, December 9, 2009
I Have a Friend I've Never Met Named Nolan
(Nolan's name and the details have been changed here, for obvious reasons)
Facebook can be a strange microcosm of real life, with so many crossroads and intersections.
I have Facebook "friends" I've never met in real life, people who found me through a "mutual friend," who may have heard my music and liked a song, or who have just signed up for friendship to stay in touch with their people. Reasons vary, but in this digital world, we often are "friends" with strangers. I meet Facebook friends at my concerts, and we enjoy the immediacy of the bond the internet provides. We are a community, and communities share things, all things, with each other.
At any rate, I occasionally find myself stumbling into the lives of others after their response to a mutual friend has made me smile, or wince. Their Facebook page – like mine, like yours – exposes who we are in slices. Pictures, status updates, and our friends (the company we keep) can say a lot about a person, including comments and replies which are often meaningful signposts and insights into the human condition.
Although we've never met, a man from Kentucky named Nolan is a friend of mine. And after only a few minutes this morning, I feel like I've known him for a very long time. But most importantly, without ever meeting, Nolan taught me something very important. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
After reading Nolan's witty, but sad comment on the wall of a mutual friend, he piqued my interest, and I hopped over to his page. His picture looked familiar, so I wanted to see if maybe our paths had crossed.
Now, as a Facebook user yourself, this story likely makes you feel vulnerable, and that's understandable. Friendship of any kind can be a very vulnerable thing. And just so you know, I don't do this every day, just jump into someone's life like I'm going through their drawers and closets. ha. But as a storyteller and songwriter, I am a naturally curious observer of people. Every person is a living, breathing story, most often an amazing one, with beauty, light, sadness and darkness all rolled up into one heart, one soul. I love people. I love stories. To me, it's all the same thing.
Now, with Facebook, the most recent posts are placed at the top of the page as you know, so if you read and scroll down, you will get a "rewind" experience, almost as if watching a movie backwards, the movie of someone's life over the last several days or weeks. This was my experience this morning.
Nolan's relationship status resolutely states that he is married. His status picture is a lovely duet of himself and his beautiful wife smiling in happy times, maybe a decade or so ago. The scanned picture is just a bit faded and the clothing dated to the late 90's.
His posts were short at the top of his page, with friends replying that he was in their prayers, to call if he needed them.
Scrolling down, there was nothing, a long break, with friends posting comments on his wall like "Hey buddy, haven't heard from you in a while. What's going on?" Some of the comments were like this: "Even though we haven't met (in person), I feel like I've known you all my life. My thoughts are with you at this difficult time."
Then more. The posts were dense, with replies like "Ditto, my friend. Take care of yourself. I'm praying for you."
Then, the horrible post in lower case letters with no punctuation, announcing the funeral services of his wife, followed by streams of support and comfort, replies by friends that they'll be there, that he is in their thoughts.
Then, scrolling further down the page, several struggling requests that his friends keep her in their prayers, saying helplessly that, "We are holding on, but we need a miracle."
My guilt-laden perusal through someone's life was interrupted by a phone call. It was my wife. She had news about something pressing, something important, the details of which I can't recall anymore. I stopped her and told her I loved her, that I appreciated her for putting up with me. In her usual non-plussed way, she tried to brush away the moment, but I wouldn't let her. She asked what prompted me to say this. I paused and said, "A friend just got me thinking."
Thanks, Nolan. My thoughts and prayers are with you too.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Storm Birds
All it takes is one bird to show us the storm may not be all that bad after all.
Yesterday was a particularly dreary Sunday morning here in Pine View Heights. A deep thunder clap woke me from sleep like the cough of God in my ear. Rain was clattering across the window panes in gusts. I pulled on my bathrobe, shoved my feet into a pair of slippers and went to sit in my favorite old ugly yellow chair in my studio. I closed the blinds against the grey onslaught of the winter weather outside. The backyard was littered with debris, both natural (twigs and branches) and man made (trash can lids, milk cartons and pizza boxes) that made it look like the beginnings of a landfill. I would spend my afternoon cleaning it all up once the rain and strong winds passed.
I sat there with my back to the window trying to get excited about life and the day ahead, when I heard a faint but beautiful sound. It sounded like chirping. Could that really be chirping? A bird singing in this weather? You have got to be kidding. What bird in their right mind would be out in the middle of a cold, winter rain storm singing as if they were heralding in the first day of Spring?
I had to open the blinds to find out. Sure enough, on a fence post in our back yard stood a small, brownish grey bird, not much to look at, but standing firmly amid diagonal rains and fierce winds, chirping clearly, succinctly, the happiest song I think I have ever heard. I’m not a bird expert, but it appeared that he truly was enjoying this. His throat moved with the happy warble of his song. He’d occasionally shake his head in a quick flit of his feathers, casting off the rain in a burst of light blue. He’d stop for a brief moment to survey his surroundings, and continue his song.
And then I noticed others. They were flying around, zooming across the grey sky and diving toward the soggy ground like they were oblivious to their surroundings. Or were they?
What makes some people storm weather singers when others just hide under a pile of warm blankets until the rain and thunder passes? I fear that I may be a fair weather singer, singing my heart out when everything’s going my way. Top of my lungs, baby. La la la laaaaa. But I’m the first to grumble when the clouds come.
I want to be more like my little friend out there, singing and bringing joy to people – whether it’s miserable or pleasant – warm or freezing cold. I want to do that for others because I know how this little bird changed my whole outlook with just a few notes of a song. If we can make others feel the same way during their own storms (the storms we all take turns enduring, by the way), maybe that’s our purpose in being here, or at least a part of our purpose.
All I know is I now have more hope in this day than I had before I heard the storm bird sing. I know I have more joy about life, despite the dreary conditions outside. I know I can smile bigger and feel deeper, all because a bird decided he was going to express joy no matter what the day brings. And I know that I have many storms yet to endure before my short life is over, so I need to decide now what my reaction will be when the weather changes.
I am reminded of an inspiring old man who lived across the street from us in Winchester, Kentucky. His name was T.L. Beckham, and he was a storm bird. When we moved in, he was our only neighbor to welcome us. Others were friendly enough. They waved or said hello, but it was Mr. Beckham who took the time to cross the street and get to know our names.
And he came bearing gifts. Every time.
Mr. Beckham was over 80 years old, long retired, a widower, but the busiest man I have ever met. He was up early, on the go all day, and home long after what the work-a-day world calls rush hour. When he visited with us, he never stayed long, maybe 20 minutes or so, saying he had to be off to visit an old friend in a nursing home, or take food to someone in need.
It wasn’t long before we learned of Mr. Beckham’s own storms and what he had been through. His wife had died several years earlier in a long, horrible battle with alzheimers. He had taken on the full responsibility of her care. Never letting her go to a hospital or nursing home, he had kept her there in the familiar surroundings of her own home until her death. He didn’t talk about those days much, but he said there wasn’t a lot of her left when she died. She slowly just slipped away from him. His attempts to bring her into reality, which seemed to work at first, were less effective as the disease took hold. In the end he had to feed her, keep her turned to avoid bedsores, bathe her and change her diapers. It was 24/7.
“It was for better or worse,” he said, “This was that ‘worse’ part, I guess, but I was happy to do it.”
I always took him at his word, but this time I had to ask him to clarify. “Happy?” I asked.
“Well, it was temporary,” he answered. “I knew that. We had a long happy life together. Most of it good. Raised three wonderful children. Nine grandchildren. All of them great blessings to us. I certainly was going to take care of her as long as I was able to. She would have done it for me. This was the deal we made, and I wasn’t about to let her down.”
With the help of his son who lived nearby, he moved her downstairs to the parlor, a room that had once been a gathering place for friends, a place of Bible study and gospel singing. (The Beckhams were devout churchgoers. When we met, one of the first things out of his mouth was to ask us if we belonged to a church – something I soon learned he asked of everyone upon meeting. Once he was assured we did, he seemed content and never brought the subject up again.)
It was his practice to visit all the local grocery stores and markets and gather up food they were throwing away, canned and boxed goods past their expiration dates, day-old pastries, bread or milk that to him seemed fine, a man who came of age during the Great Depression. He would then make his rounds and distribute the loot to folks in need. Or, like in our case, they became gifts to a young family that he had befriended.
We were recipients of Mr. Beckham’s generosity many times. He’d show up at the door with a couple of plastic grocery bags wound tightly around his purple hands. Most of the time he declined our offer to come in and sit a spell, saying he had other stops to make. Occasionally though, he would come in and go through the bag with us, telling us where he got each item. He’d hold up a long-expired, badly dented can of beets and say, “They were gonna throw this out. Can you believe that?” We’d shake our heads, sharing in his disgust, winking at each other as he rifled through the bag.
My wife is an expiration date vigilante unwilling to entertain the idea of using anything beyond it’s “use-by” date, so some of the food Mr. Beckham dropped off to us went straight to the trash can after he left. But it meant a lot that he was thinking about us, a young growing family, struggling to make ends meet on my self-employed artist’s salary.
Mr. Beckham was a man obviously dripping wet from exposure to his own life storms, and yet there he was, singing a contagious song of joy that got others around him to smile and, if even for a moment, play in the rain.
Sometimes when it seems all creation is bearing down on our heads, all it takes is one bird to show us that the storm may not be all that bad after all, that it’s just temporary, and tomorrow the sun is most surely going to shine again.
And when it does, they'll be singing just as joyfully for the privilege.
Postscript: After writing this, I was curious to know whatever happened to Mr. Beckham, as it has been many years since we lived in Winchester and he was in his early eighties when I knew him. I Googled him and found this obituary, a wonderful tribute to a life well lived:
Beckham
Theron L. "T.L." Beckham, 87, of Winchester, widower of Edith Marie Lyles Beckham, died Wednesday, April 5, 2006, at the Clark Regional Medical Center.
A native of Lancaster, S.C., he was the son of the late Samuel C. and Ada R. Beckham. He was raised in Darlington, S.C., where he was active in scouting for 11 years, attaining the rank of Eagle Scout with the Bronze Palm. He graduated from St. John's High School in 1935 and joined the Belk-Simpson Company in 1938.
He was an Army veteran of World War II and was stationed in Scotland, England, Africa and Italy. He attained the rank of staff sergeant and was awarded the Bronze Star.
Following his discharge in 1945, he returned to work with Belk-Simpson and moved to Winchester in Feb. 1946, becoming manager and part owner of Belk's Winchester store. He retired Jan. 1, 1985, with approximately 47 years of service.
He was involved in various civic organizations and activities, including serving as a past member of the chamber of commerce, Winchester Kiwanis Club, Winchester Lions Club and the Winchester Country Club. He served as chairman of commercial giving during the Clark County Hospital's fund-raising campaign.
He also served on the boards of Clark Regional Medical Center and Central Baptist Hospital, Lexington, and was a member of the school board for the former Winchester public school system. He was a member of Central Baptist Church for 60 years and served as Sunday school superintendent, a deacon, Sunday school teacher and a member of the choir.
Survivors include his twin brother, Leland W. Beckham of Darlington; two sons, Theron L. Jr., Pittsboro, Ind., and Stephen R. Beckham, Mt. Sterling; a daughter, Janice B. Frietag, Versailles; nine grandchildren, Beau S. and Laura Beckham, Louisville, Kyle S. and Ann Marye Beckham, Mt. Sterling, and Joshua P. McKay of Franklin, Ind., Allison B. and Art Kerschbaum, Lexington, Katherine M. McKay, Pittsboro, Ind., and Jessie S. McKay, Indianapolis, Ind., and two great-grandchildren, Hadley Marye Beckham and J. Harris Adams, Mt. Sterling.
Services were conducted Friday, April 7, at the Central Baptist Church by Dr. Art Beasley. Burial was in the Winchester Cemetery. Scobee Funeral Home is in charge of arrangements.
Memorials may be made to the Central Baptist Church, 101 W. Lexington Ave., Winchester, KY 40391, or the Alzheimer's Foundation, 3703 Taylorsville Road, Suite 102, Louisville, KY 49220.
All it takes is one bird to show us the storm may not be all that bad after all.
Yesterday was a particularly dreary Sunday morning here in Pine View Heights. A deep thunder clap woke me from sleep like the cough of God in my ear. Rain was clattering across the window panes in gusts. I pulled on my bathrobe, shoved my feet into a pair of slippers and went to sit in my favorite old ugly yellow chair in my studio. I closed the blinds against the grey onslaught of the winter weather outside. The backyard was littered with debris, both natural (twigs and branches) and man made (trash can lids, milk cartons and pizza boxes) that made it look like the beginnings of a landfill. I would spend my afternoon cleaning it all up once the rain and strong winds passed.
I sat there with my back to the window trying to get excited about life and the day ahead, when I heard a faint but beautiful sound. It sounded like chirping. Could that really be chirping? A bird singing in this weather? You have got to be kidding. What bird in their right mind would be out in the middle of a cold, winter rain storm singing as if they were heralding in the first day of Spring?
I had to open the blinds to find out. Sure enough, on a fence post in our back yard stood a small, brownish grey bird, not much to look at, but standing firmly amid diagonal rains and fierce winds, chirping clearly, succinctly, the happiest song I think I have ever heard. I’m not a bird expert, but it appeared that he truly was enjoying this. His throat moved with the happy warble of his song. He’d occasionally shake his head in a quick flit of his feathers, casting off the rain in a burst of light blue. He’d stop for a brief moment to survey his surroundings, and continue his song.
And then I noticed others. They were flying around, zooming across the grey sky and diving toward the soggy ground like they were oblivious to their surroundings. Or were they?
What makes some people storm weather singers when others just hide under a pile of warm blankets until the rain and thunder passes? I fear that I may be a fair weather singer, singing my heart out when everything’s going my way. Top of my lungs, baby. La la la laaaaa. But I’m the first to grumble when the clouds come.
I want to be more like my little friend out there, singing and bringing joy to people – whether it’s miserable or pleasant – warm or freezing cold. I want to do that for others because I know how this little bird changed my whole outlook with just a few notes of a song. If we can make others feel the same way during their own storms (the storms we all take turns enduring, by the way), maybe that’s our purpose in being here, or at least a part of our purpose.
All I know is I now have more hope in this day than I had before I heard the storm bird sing. I know I have more joy about life, despite the dreary conditions outside. I know I can smile bigger and feel deeper, all because a bird decided he was going to express joy no matter what the day brings. And I know that I have many storms yet to endure before my short life is over, so I need to decide now what my reaction will be when the weather changes.
I am reminded of an inspiring old man who lived across the street from us in Winchester, Kentucky. His name was T.L. Beckham, and he was a storm bird. When we moved in, he was our only neighbor to welcome us. Others were friendly enough. They waved or said hello, but it was Mr. Beckham who took the time to cross the street and get to know our names.
And he came bearing gifts. Every time.
Mr. Beckham was over 80 years old, long retired, a widower, but the busiest man I have ever met. He was up early, on the go all day, and home long after what the work-a-day world calls rush hour. When he visited with us, he never stayed long, maybe 20 minutes or so, saying he had to be off to visit an old friend in a nursing home, or take food to someone in need.
It wasn’t long before we learned of Mr. Beckham’s own storms and what he had been through. His wife had died several years earlier in a long, horrible battle with alzheimers. He had taken on the full responsibility of her care. Never letting her go to a hospital or nursing home, he had kept her there in the familiar surroundings of her own home until her death. He didn’t talk about those days much, but he said there wasn’t a lot of her left when she died. She slowly just slipped away from him. His attempts to bring her into reality, which seemed to work at first, were less effective as the disease took hold. In the end he had to feed her, keep her turned to avoid bedsores, bathe her and change her diapers. It was 24/7.
“It was for better or worse,” he said, “This was that ‘worse’ part, I guess, but I was happy to do it.”
I always took him at his word, but this time I had to ask him to clarify. “Happy?” I asked.
“Well, it was temporary,” he answered. “I knew that. We had a long happy life together. Most of it good. Raised three wonderful children. Nine grandchildren. All of them great blessings to us. I certainly was going to take care of her as long as I was able to. She would have done it for me. This was the deal we made, and I wasn’t about to let her down.”
With the help of his son who lived nearby, he moved her downstairs to the parlor, a room that had once been a gathering place for friends, a place of Bible study and gospel singing. (The Beckhams were devout churchgoers. When we met, one of the first things out of his mouth was to ask us if we belonged to a church – something I soon learned he asked of everyone upon meeting. Once he was assured we did, he seemed content and never brought the subject up again.)
It was his practice to visit all the local grocery stores and markets and gather up food they were throwing away, canned and boxed goods past their expiration dates, day-old pastries, bread or milk that to him seemed fine, a man who came of age during the Great Depression. He would then make his rounds and distribute the loot to folks in need. Or, like in our case, they became gifts to a young family that he had befriended.
We were recipients of Mr. Beckham’s generosity many times. He’d show up at the door with a couple of plastic grocery bags wound tightly around his purple hands. Most of the time he declined our offer to come in and sit a spell, saying he had other stops to make. Occasionally though, he would come in and go through the bag with us, telling us where he got each item. He’d hold up a long-expired, badly dented can of beets and say, “They were gonna throw this out. Can you believe that?” We’d shake our heads, sharing in his disgust, winking at each other as he rifled through the bag.
My wife is an expiration date vigilante unwilling to entertain the idea of using anything beyond it’s “use-by” date, so some of the food Mr. Beckham dropped off to us went straight to the trash can after he left. But it meant a lot that he was thinking about us, a young growing family, struggling to make ends meet on my self-employed artist’s salary.
Mr. Beckham was a man obviously dripping wet from exposure to his own life storms, and yet there he was, singing a contagious song of joy that got others around him to smile and, if even for a moment, play in the rain.
Sometimes when it seems all creation is bearing down on our heads, all it takes is one bird to show us that the storm may not be all that bad after all, that it’s just temporary, and tomorrow the sun is most surely going to shine again.
And when it does, they'll be singing just as joyfully for the privilege.
* * *
Postscript: After writing this, I was curious to know whatever happened to Mr. Beckham, as it has been many years since we lived in Winchester and he was in his early eighties when I knew him. I Googled him and found this obituary, a wonderful tribute to a life well lived:
Beckham
Theron L. "T.L." Beckham, 87, of Winchester, widower of Edith Marie Lyles Beckham, died Wednesday, April 5, 2006, at the Clark Regional Medical Center.
A native of Lancaster, S.C., he was the son of the late Samuel C. and Ada R. Beckham. He was raised in Darlington, S.C., where he was active in scouting for 11 years, attaining the rank of Eagle Scout with the Bronze Palm. He graduated from St. John's High School in 1935 and joined the Belk-Simpson Company in 1938.
He was an Army veteran of World War II and was stationed in Scotland, England, Africa and Italy. He attained the rank of staff sergeant and was awarded the Bronze Star.
Following his discharge in 1945, he returned to work with Belk-Simpson and moved to Winchester in Feb. 1946, becoming manager and part owner of Belk's Winchester store. He retired Jan. 1, 1985, with approximately 47 years of service.
He was involved in various civic organizations and activities, including serving as a past member of the chamber of commerce, Winchester Kiwanis Club, Winchester Lions Club and the Winchester Country Club. He served as chairman of commercial giving during the Clark County Hospital's fund-raising campaign.
He also served on the boards of Clark Regional Medical Center and Central Baptist Hospital, Lexington, and was a member of the school board for the former Winchester public school system. He was a member of Central Baptist Church for 60 years and served as Sunday school superintendent, a deacon, Sunday school teacher and a member of the choir.
Survivors include his twin brother, Leland W. Beckham of Darlington; two sons, Theron L. Jr., Pittsboro, Ind., and Stephen R. Beckham, Mt. Sterling; a daughter, Janice B. Frietag, Versailles; nine grandchildren, Beau S. and Laura Beckham, Louisville, Kyle S. and Ann Marye Beckham, Mt. Sterling, and Joshua P. McKay of Franklin, Ind., Allison B. and Art Kerschbaum, Lexington, Katherine M. McKay, Pittsboro, Ind., and Jessie S. McKay, Indianapolis, Ind., and two great-grandchildren, Hadley Marye Beckham and J. Harris Adams, Mt. Sterling.
Services were conducted Friday, April 7, at the Central Baptist Church by Dr. Art Beasley. Burial was in the Winchester Cemetery. Scobee Funeral Home is in charge of arrangements.
Memorials may be made to the Central Baptist Church, 101 W. Lexington Ave., Winchester, KY 40391, or the Alzheimer's Foundation, 3703 Taylorsville Road, Suite 102, Louisville, KY 49220.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
I Have a Friend I've Never Met Named Nolan
Originally written and posted on Facebook Wednesday, December 9th, 2009. Nolan's name and the details have been changed here, for obvious reasons
Facebook can be a strange microcosm of real life, with so many crossroads and intersections.
I have Facebook "friends" I've never met, people who found me through a "mutual friend," who may have heard my music and liked a song, or who have just signed up for friendship to stay in touch with their people. Reasons vary, but in this digital world, we often are "friends" with strangers. I meet Facebook friends at my concerts, and we enjoy the immediacy of the bond the internet provides. We are a community, and communities share things, all things, with each other.
At any rate, I occasionally find myself stumbling into the lives of others after their response to a mutual friend has made me smile, or wince. Their Facebook page – like mine, like yours – exposes who we are in slices. Pictures, status updates, and our friends (the company we keep) can say a lot about a person, including comments and replies which are often meaningful signposts and insights into the human condition.
Although we've never met, a man from Kentucky named Nolan is a friend of mine. And after only a few minutes this morning, I feel like I've known him for a very long time. But most importantly, without ever meeting, Nolan taught me something very important. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
After reading Nolan's witty, but sad comment on the wall of a mutual friend, he piqued my interest, and I hopped over to his page. His picture looked familiar, so I wanted to see if maybe our paths had crossed.
Now, as a Facebook user yourself, this story likely makes you feel vulnerable, and that's understandable. Friendship of any kind can be a very vulnerable thing. And just so you know, I don't do this every day, just jump into someone's life like I'm going through their drawers and closets. ha. But as a storyteller and songwriter, I am a naturally curious observer of people. Every person is a living, breathing story, most often an amazing one, with beauty, light, sadness and darkness all rolled up into one heart, one soul. I love people. I love stories. To me, it's all the same thing.
Now, with Facebook, the most recent posts are placed at the top of the page as you know, so if you read and scroll down, you will get a "rewind" experience, almost as if watching a movie backwards, the movie of someone's life over the last several days or weeks. This was my experience this morning.
Nolan's relationship status resolutely states that he is married. His status picture is a lovely duet of himself and his beautiful wife smiling in happy times..
His posts were short at the top of his page, with friends replying that he was in their prayers, to call if he needed them.
Scrolling down, there was nothing, a long break, with friends posting comments on his wall like "Hey buddy, haven't heard from you in a while. What's going on?" Some of the comments were like this: "Even though we haven't met (in person), I feel like I've known you all my life. My thoughts are with you at this difficult time."
Then more. The posts were dense, with replies like "Ditto, my friend. Take care of yourself. I'm praying for you."
Then, the horrible post in lower case letters with no punctuation, announcing the funeral services of his wife, followed by streams of support and comfort, replies by friends that they'll be there, that he is in their thoughts.
Then, scrolling further down the page, several struggling requests that his friends keep her in their prayers, saying helplessly that, "We are holding on, but we need a miracle."
My guilt-laden perusal through someone's life was interrupted by a phone call. It was my wife. She had news about something pressing, something important, the details of which I can't recall anymore. I stopped her and told her I loved her, that I appreciated her for putting up with me. In her usual nonplussed way, she tried to brush away the moment, but I wouldn't let her. She asked what prompted me to say this. I paused and said, "Let's just say a friend got me thinking."
Thanks, Nolan. My thoughts and prayers are with you too.
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