Texas two-step

There's nothing like driving on a long, straight Texas highway late at night to focus you on music.

First the circumstances: I was driving north Monday night on I-45 in a rented panel truck after wrapping up a trade show in Houston. (See the details at http://www.pickledish.com/.) Once past Houston en route to Dallas, I gave up on public radio. A fund-raiser for a gay-lesbian-transgender show was interesting for awhile given the politics of Texas. But the novelty wore off pretty quick. So it was time for some music.

As I wandered the dial, I found conservative Christian talk radio on the dial's far left -- ironic -- and Latino music on the far right. In the middle? Country music, of various stripes. No rock, though.

I'm a fan of country music, though I prefer the old-timey stuff to the homogenized, slick, modern country of, say, Garth Brooks and Kenny Chesney. One of my favorite soundtracks is to the Coen Brothers' movie, "O Brother Where Art Thou,"

In high school and my early college years, I was a fan of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band's legendary album, "Will the Circle Be Unbroken." The multi-record set featured the long-haired, West-Coast Dirt Band, and old-school country legends such as Lester Flatt, Earl Scruggs, Doc Watson, Merle Travis (famed for the "Travis-picking" style on the guitar used by so many guitar artists, past and present), Vasser Clements on the fiddle, and Mother Maybelle Carter.

You can sample this classic on a remastered version.

Among all of the stations on the dial that night in Texas, though, I couldn't find much other than "young country." Not, at least, until I edged closer to Dallas and found refuge in some traditional rock stations.

As I pulled up to my hotel late Monday night, I vowed that on Tuesday I would not be beholden to the truck's AM/FM radio. Instead I would grab my Ipod. And a compatriot, Paste Magazine.

If you don't know, Paste Magazine gives a sampling of new work on a free CD with each issue. The magazine, says its editors, "is for people who still enjoy discovering new music, prize substance and songcraft over fads and manufactured attitude, and appreciate quality music across a broad stylistic spectrum -- indie rock, Triple-A, Americana, folk, blues, jazz, etc."

In short, it's a magazine even Meghan and Zach might read! For me, it's a refreshing look at what's new and vital in music today.

So during the nine hours from Dallas to Kansas City, I decided to sift through eight months of Paste -- saved on my Ipod -- and pick some favorites. Interestingly, none of them is country.

I'll get to that next time.

The Obama circle

The line, north of Liberty Memorial, snakes its way past Union Station.

It's almost come full circle. Really.

It was Feb. 5th, a Tuesday night. We braved the winter's cold as we waited outside the Asbury Methodist Church at 75th and Nall in Prairie Village, a Kansas City suburb in Kansas. The Democratic Caucuses were under way, and the vast line of those waiting to vote circled the brick church.

It was a surreal moment -- this many Democrats lining up for a primary that, in past years, had turned into a joke in this predominantly red state. In fact, that night the line was lengthened by independents and even Republicans who felt the call of the caucus.

The roughly four thousand, stomping their feet, blowing on their hands, were abuzz. "Obama!" There were a few murmurs of "Hillary" now and then. But mainly "Obama!"

Now it's come to this: Last night a second line, vastly larger, snaked around the massive circumference of the Liberty Memorial grounds in downtown Kansas City, where Obama would soon speak. More than 70,000 slowly made the circle, past T-shirt vendors, Fred Phelps hate-mongers, a smattering of conservative dissidents and one musical zealot with a ukelele and a misspelled (I feel) "judgement" on his "Judgment Day" sign.

"Obama!"

I asked Cindy: "When was the last time a single person pulled this kind of crowd in Kansas City?"

We couldn't find an answer. John Kerry drew only 20,000, we knew.

But as security helicopters buzzed above, as SWAT team members peered down from tall buildings, and special black-gloved federal police kept the line corralled, it was clear the ascendancy of Barack Obama was now a reality.

You go to these kinds of events because they're historic, not necessarily for the message. We've heard the message over and over again. In fact, we wouldn't be there had it not been for the message, which started back well ahead of Feb. 5th. (My guess is, if given the chance, the crowd could have finished a few of Barack's lines for him.)

No, you go because he's the first black man likely to be president. You go because, whether you're completely sold on his policies, it seems -- at last -- that the country and even the world are excited about a leader again. You go because you want to be part of it, to show your solidarity.

We heard Barack's speech from a distance ... the turnout was so large, so deep, and flowing over the undulating grounds of Liberty Memorial, that we couldn't see much beyond the crowd except the brightly lit spectator stands towering over the podium.

It was a good speech, with a few good jokes for the locals. And then it was over.

As the crowd parted, we started to head to the car. But then I noticed a wall of folks to the east, not budging an inch. They were three and four deep, hard against a crowd-control fence. About 50 feet beyond was the road upon which Obama's motorcade would make its exit.

It was a chance to actually see the man. We joined the line.

As we waited, I thought about when I was a journalism student at the University of Illinois covering politics for The Daily Illini. I was assigned that day to catch some crowd reaction to a visit by President Gerald Ford to Champaign, Ill.

So I joined the people along his motorcade route. Being the ever-objective journalist, I strongly vowed not to get excited when Jerry drove by -- no yells, waves or anything. I was there to observe, not participate. Soon Ford's long line of black limos appeared, police cars flashing in the lead.

"There he is!" shouted the woman next to me.

And there he was, in the window, looking straight at me with a big smile. And waving.

I waved back.

Last night I was free to wave. So when Obama's entourage rolled by, and cameras flashed in the night, I reached for the sky, both arms. And yelled. I couldn't even see him through the opaque windows. But I waved anyway.

I'm trusting -- really trusting -- that he waved back.

Trilogy

I was heading back from Quiznos on Monday after grabbing some lunch. It was a  cloudy, cool, rainy day in Kansas City. 

I drove by the corner of Truman Boulevard and Main, and there was a guy with a cardboard sign asking for help. 

But not the usual help. 

"LOOKING FOR WORK," the sign said. 

Not "NEED MONEY" or "NEED FOOD." 

No, it was a guy looking for eight hours (or more) of work, pure and simple.

Sure, there are Labor-Ready spots in the city, where the jobless hang out to land a day's pay for a day's work. 

But when it comes to guys hanging on the corner with a sign seeking help, this one's a rarity in downtown Kansas City.  At least it has been. Most with signs are looking for straight handouts. 

This guy, we'll call him Ron, was looking for a day's honest labor.  He agreed to be interviewed, though he didn't want his I.D. or photo shared. I'd say he was in his mid 40s. Had a mustache, a wool jacket and a backpack off to the side. 

Ron has had a string of jobs, he said, the most recent being as a Kirby vacuum salesman up in nearby St. Joseph, Mo.  My "string" reference suggests -- maybe unfairly -- that he's a not a good permanent-hire risk. 

But Ron was a straight talker, with interesting stuff to tell.  We shared his umbrella during 15 minutes of conversation, the cars stopping and starting as the lights flicked from red to green.

"I was making sales, but then we'd run credit checks on the customers.  And they'd come back bad," he said.  He would nail the sale, but the customers presumably couldn't manage the payments.  (If you know anything about Kirbys, you know they're fairly expensive machines ... and that, sometimes, the sales staff can be pretty aggressive.  Ron didn't seem the aggressive type, though.) 

 

Needless to say, Ron's Kirby activities dried up.  So he traveled down to the big city to test his fortunes here.  Thus the sign -- the search for work.

 

We've all heard of the credit crisis, writ large.  Here it is, though, down home. If Kirby won't take the lending risk, it must be bad out there.  

What's interesting to me is the quiet but rapid way the crisis has spread, to grip individuals we know.  I can't sense it as I drive to work (thank you!) each day, because the rush hour seems as busy. But it's the stories you hear.  

Two other quick ones:

- Starting about a week ago, I began getting phone calls from folks in the art and design community who sounded worried, indicating that their freelance work was drying up as their customers cut projects.  "Do you have any kind of work ... be happy to do it!"  Always enthusiastic, always eager ... but definitely worried.

You feel for these guys, because clearly they love their craft -- and now that magic combination of doing something they love and getting paid for it is threatened. 

- And then there's the guy who comes to service our furnace.  Every year we've called him -- he works for a heating/cooling company.  But it's obvious this time that he's worried about money. His salary is contingent on how many calls he handles.  But these days, he has time on his hands.  Lots of time. 

The problem:  A big chunk of his day used to be taken up by developers hiring him to put in heating and cooling systems in new housing developments.  That's come to a virtual halt. 

Instead, he relies on calls like ours ... "Come check the furnace to make sure it's not going to blow up this winter,"  we said. While important and necessary, it's not going to pay all of the bills. 

 

What's ahead?  Personally, I'm encouraged by the recent trends. The credit markets are firming up, the stock market seems to have gotten a grip. But everyone knows we're into a recession. And I've seen enough of those to know it takes awhile to come out of them.  Times will be hard, for a lot of people. 

In the meantime, Ron, my artists and the heating guy will do what they've got to do to get by. Sure, it's a can-do spirit we like to celebrate.  But it's true.

As I watched Ron for a bit from across the street, in the shelter of my Beetle, I was amazed at the number of drivers that would stop, roll down their windows, and give Ron encouragement. A much different treatment than that given the sign-carrier seeking a handout.

But encouragement is free ... there were no job offers.  

Ron stoically weathered on. 

"A fine day, officer!"

Clearly, I need to get my head around this blog thing. Talk about a missed opportunity. 

Last week I was dashing between warehouses where we store stuff related to my job, trying to tie up some loose ends regarding a trade-show trip next week.  I was in my Beetle, which most folks assume is a glamorized golf cart.  

My secret is that my silver Beetle is a turbo, which Volkswagen stopped making a few years back ... I suspect because they were too darn dangerous. 

You see, it can move pretty fast without much coaxing.  I love it. I'm convinced it loves me. 

So Beetle and me, we're shooting across this Kansas highway bridge with the radio cranked, in sure bliss.  Then I hear the siren through my sunroof, see the red lights in my rearview mirror.  Busted.

I quickly pull over, and Officer Badge No. 3534 (his name isn't really relevant here) walks up behind my front-door window and, in that calm way that officers do, politely asks for my driver's license and proof of insurance.

"You were doing 43 in a 30, sir," he says.

I mumble in agreement as I'm fumbling to find my insurance card.  I find last year's, then 2006, 2005, 2004 ... but not this year's.  

"It must be on my desk at home," I stammer.

The cop chuckles.  "OK, be right back."

While I'm waiting I stew over the waste of it all -- at least a couple of hundred bucks down the drain, I tell myself. 

IF, though, I had been on top of my blog game, I would have set that pain aside and turned the tables on Officer No. 3534 -- in a nice way, of course.  I had my camera there.  I could have snapped a quick photo of him posing by his car.

And then I would have asked him, in the best tradition of journalism, for his most interesting stories of handing out tickets.  Surely he must have some doozies.  You can imagine some of the excuses:

• "I wore my heavy shoes today."
  
• "I thought I was going uphill, not down, thus the need to punch it."
  
• "My pet boa constrictor is attacking my cat. I must get home!"
  
• "I'm a Mizzou fan being chased by rabid Jayhawks." 
• "Oh, was that me driving?"
  

Alas, it wasn't to be.  Officer Badge No. 3534 returned with my license and the dreaded yellow ticket ... "Notice to Appear on the 22nd day of October, 2008," it said. And if I can show proof of my insurance then, he added, I can reduce my fine.

"Fine," I meekly replied, missing the irony of my words. "Thank you, officer." 

Of course, it's unlikely he would have sat for an interview.  Official policy and all.  But still, I wonder ...

Only later do I imagine the headline: 

Intrepid reporter, blazing bug caught in speed trap   

And the kicker: 

Says driver: 'I have no excuse'

Addendum:

This ticket is doubly painful because I've lectured both Meghan and Zach on the 9 mph rule -- that is, generally if you keep your speed to no more than 9 miles per hour over the speed limit, you won't get a ticket. 

In my case, I'll let you do the math. 

Dads, children and unmet wishes

It was one of those moments we've all experienced. You look up and, like the snap of a camera, you witness a flash of human emotion.

In this case we were at a wedding reception. A good friend of Meghan's had gotten married. He and Meghan for years were teammates on the Mission, Kansas, swim team. (There's that water again!)

The location was the Hobbs Building in the old West Bottoms area of Kansas City. The "Bottoms" are a storied collection of warehouse buildings, bumpy roads and occasional corner eateries, some of which have existed since Kansas City's industrial beginning.

Only this warehouse had been transformed -- from a stark structure of massive floor-to-ceiling pillars and cold, brick walls to a magical venue of lights, tables and, now, music.

We'd done our toasts and enjoyed the food. Then as the floor dances of the new husband and wife and their dads and moms got under way, I turned back to our table.

I happened then to glance up. And there, so very briefly, one of the younger waitresses -- I'd guess early twenties -- had paused in the bustle of the noise, her tray crowded with empty wine glasses. She had turned toward the dance floor.

And then she began to sway lightly ... back and forth ... to the music. Her eyes were bright; there was a slight smile. A wistful smile. It was one of those purely innocent moments that you covet but rarely see.

Of course, I don't know what she was thinking. But I could imagine -- the most obvious being that, for her, a wedding was a dream not yet realized. (Or, perhaps, she simply missed the one she loved.) She stood that way for, maybe, 10 seconds.

And then, as if a switch had been thrown, her eyes dimmed and she was off again, the smile consumed by the job at hand.

Thirty years ago, I don't think I would have appreciated such a moment. As a dad, though, with my own daughter roughly the same age, it touched all sorts of emotions. The most obvious to me: That I wished this waitress well, and that if she had a wish, that it would come true.

It's a cliche that dads want what's best for their children, though it's true for most of us. In fact, it burns so deep that in moments when those wishes are dashed or even delayed, it can devastate us.

It's also a cliche that dads are more inclined these days to wear their emotions on their sleeve, be in touch with their inner selves and enjoy Oprah as much as football.

Instead, I think dads by and large are still a quiet bunch who are most comfortable keeping their noses down, working very, very hard, grunting occasional hellos to the world while, indeed, wanting the very, very best for their families.

You see, inside these dads, love burns brightly -- like a thousand candles. Occasionally it will spill out, capable of lighting an entire room. But it rarely happens. Which is too bad.

After the wedding, as we were driving home, I thought again about the waitress. And I thought about her dad, wherever he might be. And I wished he could have witnessed her pause, her bright eyes and smile. Witnessed her dream.

Surely his eyes would have been as bright ... and his own smile as wistful.

Ready, set ...

There's a reporter friend of mine who I used to supervise when I was business editor of the metro newspaper where I work. He now works for the World Bank. He was notorious for spending 45 minutes of his 60 minutes before deadline, agonizing over the words he would construct in the first paragraph of his front-page, breaking-news story.

His method was clear: Correctly write the first paragraph -- so that the facts and the nuances all made sense in terms of both truth but also organization -- and all else would flow.

Incredibly, he would nail the paragraph by Minute 45, then zip through the writing of the rest of the story in mind-breaking speed, and hand it to me a minute or two past deadline. The rest of the copy would be immaculate. In hindsight, it's silly now that I would sweat the process. He was consistent, to a fault.

So it is with this blog. Unlike with the reporter, it's not as if there are 1 million newspaper readers waiting for yet another blog to "land on their doorstep." In truth, maybe -- if I'm lucky -- a dozen or so. But, I've felt the need to sweat this first post. Because from that, all else will flow.

So enough introduction. I'm ready to take the plunge.

... go! My first post

The blog's title is Above Water. Huh? you ask.

It's really simple. As a kid I rode my bicycle to swim-team practice in the summer months of the mid '60s. It was quite a ride across town. But my bike was cool -- one of those red big-wheeled Schwinns with the dual baskets on the back. The water was always cold and the coaches loud. The swimmnig? It wasn't easy.

Since then, I've been wedded to water. It's my life blood, a place to retreat and restore. Dare I say a sanctuary. I still love to swim laps -- I love the quiet, rhythmic repetition, the fluid sounds rushing by me. Yoga mantras, I would think, are much similar.

But I also like water's power. If given the chance, I could spend days bouncing off large ocean- or Lake-Michigan waves, crying victory as I bang against each slap! of the crest. Water is pretty remarkable stuff, even setting aside that we need it to survive. It can punish you and nurture you at the same time. Just ask the folks in Galveston, Texas. 

This affinity for water is weird, I know. But that's me. Today, I continue to swim at the pool at the University of Missouri - Kansas City. And, each summer, we visit Glen Lake in Michigan -- the scene at the top of this blog, where dusk is as ethereal and yet settling as a warm embrace on a cold night. And each summer, I plunge in to those clear waters and feel nature's arms welcoming me back.

Ultimately, water to me is like a good friend. As Amos Lee sings in "Black River:"

"whoa, black river, gonna take my cares away ..."

(Check out the video ... a great tune.)

Of course, I'm not nuts. Water is only water. Scientific journals give it a very antiseptic definition -- a mix of hydrogen and oxygen. Even Lee goes on to sing that God and whiskey can also "take your cares away." They can.  And at 70 degrees or less, water can be pretty damn biting.

But -- and at last, the point -- if water is occasional sanctuary, Above Water is where the action is, where real human life unfolds. And so the purpose of this blog.

My goal is to write about what occurs "on shore" -- to me, my family, friends and strangers unmet. I was trained to be an observer and writer; sadly, I'd set aside those skills in recent years to pursue business. No big deal, really. Business has been and continues to be great fun, too. (In fact, I contribute to a blog now tied to our quilt-book business -- PickleDish.com -- which is a whole other story. You'll see that, on occasion, I actually try to be funny there!)

But now that my son and daughter are out on their own, I feel the need to chronicle what's been and what will remain of my life. I think it's part of a personal reawakening for me -- something that actually started about a year ago. Maybe it's a mid-life thing. Maybe it's just me getting back to my journalistic roots. Certainly it's a creative restlessness and curiosity that I haven't felt for years.  

Ultimately, it's about taking risks ... something I've encouraged others very close to me to do, while expecting the same from myself. 

In the end, I hope that my children (and their children?!) and friends and others will know a bit more about Doug's quiet ways and sometimes what goes through his head.

A blog is a powerful way to do all that. The key is to not be too self-absorbed -- the quickest way to be boring!

We'll see how long I keep at it.

For starters, I'll introduce you to my family, pictured here. There's my wife Cindy, daughter Meghan and son Zach. Oh, and we can't forget our dogs ... Linus on the left and Riley on the right. Talk about living on solid ground! My blessings are many.

Though family matters surely will come up, the goal is to reach, stretch and observe outside, too. There are a lot of "solid-grounders" out there. I aim to find them ... but also find those who enjoy slipping from solid-ground status into edgier stuff.

I'm reminded of a guy Cindy and I met on a trip to Rapid City ... Wayne Porter. He and his dad run a sculpture park between Sioux Falls and Rapid City. The park is incredible ... dragons and more! Wayne's got to be a bit out there to create -- and then make a living -- off of prairie sculptures.

So, the edgier the better!  I'm a firm believer that "edgy" keeps "solid ground" cultivated ... porous, richer, ready for new ideas.  

Of course, the solid-grounders are in a lot of places, and all have great stories to tell. Like Bill Shea, below, who runs a very cool Route 66 museum in Springfield, Illinois.

Or Jim Armstrong, who's operated for years a Route 66 motel, the Wagon Wheel, in Cuba, Missouri.

I aim to find these kinds of stories and others in my travels, and around town, too. And I'll throw in some other stuff ... thoughts on music, politics, society and more.

By the way, to some people Above Water suggests a struggling desperation -- barely keeping afloat as currents churn below. Although there's some truth to that given the industry within which I work, that's not the metaphor intended.

Above Water is living a good, fruitful and ever-curious life. Having fun by playing in water? Well, that's the reward.