How can one event influence a life so completely? In a matter of minutes, an entire life, as well as countless lives around it warped irreversibly in a ripple that knows no end. Good intentions. A warm August afternoon. Grind of metal on metal. Serendipitous series of events. A life's course jumping tracks in more ways than I'll ever comprehend.
Eight years ago, I was a much different person than I am today. On August 19th, 2002, I was two days away from the final year of a twelve year prison sentence at Central Lee Community High School. Gainfully employed as a burger flipper under the golden arches in Mt. Pleasant, Iowa, I worked for a man named Tom who's bald head turned various shades of crimson at any sign of misstep by his miscreant employees. My manager was a pale hollow eyed man who embodied what I imagined a vampire to look like (this is a pre-twighlight vampire, fyi) and nonchalantly shaved with a Bic razor as he wandered in for his shift, giving me razor burn just by watching. He, from what I could tell, hated everything, and took sadistic pleasure in railing against the idiocy of our customers from behind the food preparation line. He was rarely seen by the front counter.
In retrospect, I think I was dealing with an identity crisis during that portion of my life. I had hair down to my shoulders, enjoyed punk and ska music, drove a Ford Taurus, and weighed an incredible 125 pounds. It was as if I couldn't decide if I wanted to be a hippie, a badass, an old man, or a little girl. Don't get me wrong, I was content enough – not depressed or even 'emo' as it'd later be identified – I just didn't really fit into any one category.
On August 19th, 2002, I woke up at the mind numbing hour of 3:30 am to make my way to work for the opening shift. I worked my eight hours of hard labor folding eggs and flipping Mcburgers, and at about the sixth hour, my boss requested that I stay a few hours longer, to cover for a fellow McWaste-of-life who was MIA, soon to be KIA. I begrudgingly obliged, and stayed an extra three hours, through the lunch rush.
So about 3 pm I began the 23 mile trek home in my trusty Taurus. Listening to some brass infused punk CD in my discman with tape deck adapter, I drove, semi-catatonic towards the sleepy town of Donnellson, where my bed was calling my name. It would be three weeks till I saw that bed again.
Somewhere around mile marker 14, I nodded off. At least that is the conclusion I came to after looking at all the evidence. I remember bits and pieces of the next few hours, but much of the events from that day were relayed to me from friends and family, so my actual memories and the regurgitation of anecdotes have blurred. Here is the closest semblance of what happened:
Just before the “Salem Stub” a truck stop and convenience store, I fell asleep and crossed the center line of U.S. Highway 218, into oncoming traffic. The oncoming traffic in question was a 2002 Volvo Tractor-Trailer – A big rig Semi, probably on his way back north from a delivery to Saint Louis or Memphis.
The driver of the truck saw me coming and tried to avoid a collision by moving onto the shoulder of the road. He got as far over as possible, but my car continued its lateral movement and slammed into the front wheel well of the truck. The force of my car against the truck caused the cab to shift east and bring the trailer around into a jack knife. My old Taurus slid along the cab, shearing the massive lag bolts off the wheels, bouncing off the steel gas tank and slamming squarely into the rear axles of the trailer. The axle and four adjoined wheels came with me as I careened off the road and finally came to rest in the ditch. A few moments later, the semi tractor skidded to a halt in the opposite embankment.
What happened next is completely lost on me. I distinctly remember feeling the warm august sun on me, and the strongest desire to curl up and fall asleep. I can vaguely make out a spider-webbed windshield in that memory, but it does not strike me as being out of place. I would later learn that the first person on the scene was a friend of mine from Boy Scouts, a trained EMT. I do not know what he did to assuage my fears or assess the situation, but it comforts me to know that he was the one to come upon what was surely a grizzly sight.
The driver of the truck, a middle-Eastern man who evidently spoke very little English, had exited his vehicle and was frantic as he dashed about the highway, unsure as to what had happened or what to do. He was uninjured, but from what people have told me, he was as in as much shock as I was at that moment.
The first responders arrived upon the scene and began working to extract me from the shattered remains of my sedan. A sleeping bag left over from a camping trip earlier that summer was draped over my head to protect me from further injury as they used various power tools to first remove the crumpled roof of the car as if it were a can opener, then lift the dashboard off of my legs, and finally remove the seat belt. I recall them speaking to someone on the radio, describing me as a 21 year old male, 6 foot and approximately 100 lbs. I spoke up to correct them, “Excuse me, sir? I'm 17, not 21”.
Once in the ambulance, they asked me if I could feel any pain. I replied that I couldn't feel any pain, that I was fairly comfortable. They asked me for a number to reach a family member, and without blinking an eye, I gave them my home number, as well as my mothers cell phone, and both of her offices. As they rushed me to Mt. Pleasant's community hospital, they phoned my mother to tell her what had happened.
They had also contacted Iowa City, the largest medical facility in near proximity. Being a teaching hospital, The University of Iowa hospitals are synonymous with severe injury and mysterious diseases. A medical helicopter was landing at Mt. Pleasant as we pulled into the hospital. They transferred me to from the ambulance and in minutes we were off again, en route to the University.
When we arrived, two teams of physicians we ready for me. So was my mother, having been driven the hour and a half trek by our family priest, a volunteer firefighter. My priest, in the frenzied chase up to the hospital, had neglected to grab his sacramental emergency kit, and left his chrism in his other pants pockets. Being the utilitarian man of the cloth he was, he grabbed the nearest tube of medical lubricant and administered last rites to me. Just as a precaution, of course. I was then rushed into what would turn out to be two simultaneous eight hour surgeries: one team working on the internal injuries to my spleen and kidneys, the other team reassembling the pieces of my shattered left femur.
My condition was stabilized, and I was admitted to the hospital. It would be three days until they would finish repairing my crumpled limbs. Here is the laundry list of damage done, in order of altitude:
Scratch to the top of the head – No stitches required
Simple fracture to the right humerus – Titanium plate
Two fractures to the left humerus (one compound, one simple at the elbow) – three titanium plates
Loss of all feeling and use of left arm
Ruptured Spleen
Bruised kidney
Shattered left femur, 15 – 20 pieces – Titanium rod
Two fractured metatarsals in my left foot – two pins
They put a lot of hardware in me that week. I spent a total of thirteen days in the hospital. The first few were spent in a series of delirious, pain filled moments, interrupted by visitors, morphine drips, suppositories, sleep, horrible nightmares, inattentive attendants, visitors, and pain. A distinct memory of a doctor coming in, pulling my left leg out of the sling and, comparing it to the right, “yeah, it looks like we are going to have to add a few inches to this one.” Evidently, in their rush to avoid amputation, they erroneously gauged the length of the titanium rod that now runs through my upper leg. No biggie. It's either another surgery, or I buy one tall shoe for the rest of my life. My family opted for the surgery, for which I am grateful. My hands looked like uncooked sausages, swollen from the bleeding and drainage of my upper arms. Even my scrotum was black and blue. It hurt to breathe, shift, and even think.
As I began gaining strength, the next challenge was to regain mobility. Learning to walk on my rebuilt leg and utilize my defunct left arm, as well as my newly appointed dominant right hand, was a monstrous challenge. Beyond the coordination I lacked, I also was without the strength to stand for more than a minute or two. They'd sliced a vertical line from my nipples to my pelvis, and shifted around everything in between. My stomach muscles just ached as I tried to execute menial tasks such as walking, standing, or bending. My left knee, with two screws driving through the femur above the joint, disseminated wretched tendrils of pain every step, reminding me that this limb did still exist, and was not happy about the current condition. Stairs were off limits. Getting out of bed was a monumental challenge.
Just shy of two weeks, I was released from the hospital. I made my way home, adjusting every aspect of my life to accommodate this altered reality. I couldn't stay in my own bed. I couldn't pee without alerting two or more family members to help me stand, hobble to the bathroom, and stand sentinel in case of mishap. All sense of privacy and shame went out the window. I did not care if my family saw my partially nude. I couldn't care. They had to help me bathe, brush my teeth, and shave.
I spent the majority of that fall smelling the autumnal bliss drift away. Leaves changed, sports were enjoyed, camps were camped. And I was static. This immobility drove me mad. I had plenty of homework to catch up on, but my ability to concentrate on that was severely diminished. In retrospect I wonder if the trauma from the accident had a detrimental affect on my cognitive abilities.
I finally returned to school mid September, the one year anniversary of the World Trade Center bombings. A half day, I pledged allegiance from my wheelchair, touched base with all of my sympathetic teachers, and went back to the monotonous existence that awaited me.
The events of that sultry August day shaped my life so profoundly, there is rarely a moment that they do not slip into my mind. It may sound a bit cliché, but I learned how temporary life is that day. It made me hungry to experience life. I half jokingly labeled my recent 25th birthday as the 1/5th mark. This is not because I truly believe that I might live to 125 (I don't know if I'd even want to), but because I want to do so much with my life that it'd take that long to accomplish that all.
The constant reminders on my arms, legs, and stomach are not obvious to those I meet day to day. My professional attire exudes no evidence of the trauma I once underwent. But sometimes I'll find myself in a situation that a scar is revealed. I used to revel in telling the most outlandish tales of death defying conflicts (there are hundreds of Boy Scouts in the Midwest who believe I was attacked by a bear in northern Minnesota), but I've grown out of that ruse. Besides, the truth is so much more entertaining, not to mention awe inspiring. I do feel a bit sheepish explaining it to people. I try not to wear these events on my sleeve.
That's why I keep them under my sleeves. They've shaped who I am, but I don't want them to shape who people see me as.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Neighbor
I had many expectations for my first apartment. Relaxed. Spacious. Inviting. But in all of my plans for this, my first independent living quarters, I never gave a thought to whom I wanted as my neighbors.
The building that became this first home of mine alone, in the heart of Davenport, Iowa, was once a very nice apartment complex - Hard wood floors, fireplaces in every unit. The spacious units contained seven rooms that stretched the length of the building. But somewhere over the last century the building has fallen from its former grandeur. the fireplaces have been sealed. The hard wood is marred and warped, providing entrances for any number of unwanted visitors. The once grand floor plan has been walled into smaller three room units, with drywall clumsily filling once elaborate doorways.
I was immediately attracted to the building by the outer facade. A beautiful sandstone brick building. Once inside, the high ceilings and hard wood floors gave me the effect of dignity that I was searching for. This place had character! A beautiful picture window looked out over...well, it looked out at the ramshackle duplex across the street. But it was still a great aspect of the apartment. I conveniently avoided making eye contact with the cracks below the baseboards and awkward window, waist high next to the bathtub. Or the bizarre window in the hallway that opened into the interior of the building - an empty shaft, three stories high, with windows from all the other apartments peering into the nothingness. These issues were part of the charm of the place.
Moving in on August 1st, I soon learned that another charm of the apartment was the lack of air conditioning. I had grown up without A/C, so I thought 'No big deal!'. but it became a big deal when then nights stayed a balmy 92. Laying on my futon wearing naught but my underwear and a disdain for humidity, I decided that being anywhere but in my trendy new apartment would be better than this slow saute that I was being subjected to.
As I walked out of the complex, book in hand, my intention was simple: enjoy the night breeze on the front porch until my body was too tired to care about my sauna of an apartment. When I reached the porch, however, I came upon my downstairs neighbor and a few of his...associates.
"Aw, hey neighbuh! You live upstairs, right? I saw you movin' in last week - You'z gotsome stuff!"
A little uneasy by his observations about my "stuff", I replied with a non committal “mmmhmm”.
I sat on the stone ledge of the porch and began to leaf through my novel. Neighbor, as I would come to know him by, resumed his conversation with the gentlemen on the stairs.
I sat there for a few moments, but was unable to concentrate on the page before me. I instead began to listen to the conversation unfolding below.
Neighbor sat at the top of the steps with a tallboy of Steel Reserve™ malt liquor and a joint, postulating on the current political crisis. He was older than me, probably in his mid-forties. He had a shaved head, Oakley knock-off sunglasses, and the hints of age on his face - if he wasn't that old, he had experienced forty years of wear and tear.
A polyester short sleeved dress shirt, unbuttoned, was draped across his wiry frame. His baggy cargo shorts were smeared with an unidentifiable greasy residue. The neighbor rocked and swayed with a spastic lack of rhythm as he leaned in toward his congregation, the fervor in his voice increasing. The young men were listening intently to his words, nodding in agreement and ever so often interjecting with a word or two of impassioned sentiment. Without knowing the topic of their boisterous exchange, this meeting could have been interpreted as the incipient sparks of a revolutionary movement.
But in reality, it was nothing more than a few guys complaining about the eternal problems of the U.S. Government.
As time went on, I became acclimated to the weather patterns of my apartment. I learned the character of the old unit, strategically placing fans to accentuate the cross breezes in the summer and cranking open the steam radiators to full capacity in the winters. I soon learned to stay clear of the radiator units in the winter time, as even a glancing connection to the brass could result in severe burns. The whistle of the radiators steam release valve became a sound that lulled me to sleep on winter nights, and drowned out the skittering of mice seeking sanctuary in my walls and across my hardwood floors.
Sometimes I'd see Neighbor as I drove away from the apartment in the morning. He'd be strolling toward the sandstone building, clad in an ankle length steel gray fur coat and wool fedora. He was strolling down the broken sidewalk with the most carefree ease, his Steel Reserve™ in one hand, cigarette in the other, navigating the ice and snow without any indication he'd even noticed its presence.
He always made me wonder if he had a job. It didn't matter what time it was, what day I was out, or the season of the year – I'd see Neighbor on the porch, on the street, around the community. Whatever his income source, he always had a smile on his face, right below those knock off Oakley's, obscured by an aluminum can or the slight sepia tone of the smoke of a blunt.
Although I am a skinny, unassuming white boy who grew up in an ethnically monochromatic farm town in southeast Iowa, I felt oddly at home in this antiquated apartment settled in an area notorious for shootings, drug transaction, and over-bassed low riders at any hour of the night. Friends who lived in “safer” parts of town were forced to enter the complex through Neighbor's haze and sermonizing, they'd always great me with a relieved sense of accomplishment, as if they'd traversed through a tribulation worthy of tears and hugs. The harrowed expressions of my guests always made me chuckle, and affirmed my belief that these people who lived around me were exactly that – people. They were not the caricatures of ghetto's and rap videos, narratives created by a narrow view of culture fed to me as a youth.
One Sunday morning that particularly enforced the confidence I carried I stepped out into the sunshine, and there was Neighbor, with two men enjoying their sacrament. The two gentlemen, upon seeing me, quickly made their pot scarce. But Neighbor, at this sign of attempted deception, simply let out a laugh.
“Aw, man! Yo'all ain't got nothin' to worry about! Is's Neighbuh!” He said to his attentive listeners, then turned to me and, with an outstretched hand offered, “Neighbuh, you want some of this?”
“I'm trying to quit, but thank you.” I replied graciously. I chuckled as I walked to my car, amazed by the confidence that man had just had in me. In retrospect, I realize that not only was he sending me a message of faith, but he was also using me as a way to send a clear message to his acolytes. Neighbor was in control of the situation, and while you were smoking on his porch, there was nothing to worry about.
This level of self-certainty in his ability to keep things cool gave me a similar confidence while living in that building. While I never had to utilize it, I always felt like I could rely on Neighbor's assistance. If a tussle arose, or if I needed credibility in that often times ominous neighborhood, he was the man I would go to.
I have since moved out of that old sandstone complex. My new place is surrounded by quaint cottages with neatly trimmed lawns and sculpted shrubs. I don't know many of my neighbors, and the ones I've met are much less endearing then Neighbor. They keep to themselves, avoid eye contact as we pass in the hall, as if they are afraid of inconveniencing me with the emotional connection that might be exchanged. And not surprising, I don't feel near as secure in this new place as I did back in the old apartment.
I saw him the other day as I was passing through the old neighborhood. I almost stopped to attempt to reconnect with Neighbor, but I resisted. I think I was afraid that my memory of our relationship and the appreciation I felt toward this anomalous man would not be reciprocated, and I'd rather retain the pleasant memories I had of our transient interactions than chance the reality that Neighbor had no memories of our forced proximity and bore no kind reminiscence as I did.
So I drove on by. And neighbor lives on, Steel Reserve™ in one hand, joint in the other.
The building that became this first home of mine alone, in the heart of Davenport, Iowa, was once a very nice apartment complex - Hard wood floors, fireplaces in every unit. The spacious units contained seven rooms that stretched the length of the building. But somewhere over the last century the building has fallen from its former grandeur. the fireplaces have been sealed. The hard wood is marred and warped, providing entrances for any number of unwanted visitors. The once grand floor plan has been walled into smaller three room units, with drywall clumsily filling once elaborate doorways.
I was immediately attracted to the building by the outer facade. A beautiful sandstone brick building. Once inside, the high ceilings and hard wood floors gave me the effect of dignity that I was searching for. This place had character! A beautiful picture window looked out over...well, it looked out at the ramshackle duplex across the street. But it was still a great aspect of the apartment. I conveniently avoided making eye contact with the cracks below the baseboards and awkward window, waist high next to the bathtub. Or the bizarre window in the hallway that opened into the interior of the building - an empty shaft, three stories high, with windows from all the other apartments peering into the nothingness. These issues were part of the charm of the place.
Moving in on August 1st, I soon learned that another charm of the apartment was the lack of air conditioning. I had grown up without A/C, so I thought 'No big deal!'. but it became a big deal when then nights stayed a balmy 92. Laying on my futon wearing naught but my underwear and a disdain for humidity, I decided that being anywhere but in my trendy new apartment would be better than this slow saute that I was being subjected to.
As I walked out of the complex, book in hand, my intention was simple: enjoy the night breeze on the front porch until my body was too tired to care about my sauna of an apartment. When I reached the porch, however, I came upon my downstairs neighbor and a few of his...associates.
"Aw, hey neighbuh! You live upstairs, right? I saw you movin' in last week - You'z gotsome stuff!"
A little uneasy by his observations about my "stuff", I replied with a non committal “mmmhmm”.
I sat on the stone ledge of the porch and began to leaf through my novel. Neighbor, as I would come to know him by, resumed his conversation with the gentlemen on the stairs.
I sat there for a few moments, but was unable to concentrate on the page before me. I instead began to listen to the conversation unfolding below.
Neighbor sat at the top of the steps with a tallboy of Steel Reserve™ malt liquor and a joint, postulating on the current political crisis. He was older than me, probably in his mid-forties. He had a shaved head, Oakley knock-off sunglasses, and the hints of age on his face - if he wasn't that old, he had experienced forty years of wear and tear.
A polyester short sleeved dress shirt, unbuttoned, was draped across his wiry frame. His baggy cargo shorts were smeared with an unidentifiable greasy residue. The neighbor rocked and swayed with a spastic lack of rhythm as he leaned in toward his congregation, the fervor in his voice increasing. The young men were listening intently to his words, nodding in agreement and ever so often interjecting with a word or two of impassioned sentiment. Without knowing the topic of their boisterous exchange, this meeting could have been interpreted as the incipient sparks of a revolutionary movement.
But in reality, it was nothing more than a few guys complaining about the eternal problems of the U.S. Government.
As time went on, I became acclimated to the weather patterns of my apartment. I learned the character of the old unit, strategically placing fans to accentuate the cross breezes in the summer and cranking open the steam radiators to full capacity in the winters. I soon learned to stay clear of the radiator units in the winter time, as even a glancing connection to the brass could result in severe burns. The whistle of the radiators steam release valve became a sound that lulled me to sleep on winter nights, and drowned out the skittering of mice seeking sanctuary in my walls and across my hardwood floors.
Sometimes I'd see Neighbor as I drove away from the apartment in the morning. He'd be strolling toward the sandstone building, clad in an ankle length steel gray fur coat and wool fedora. He was strolling down the broken sidewalk with the most carefree ease, his Steel Reserve™ in one hand, cigarette in the other, navigating the ice and snow without any indication he'd even noticed its presence.
He always made me wonder if he had a job. It didn't matter what time it was, what day I was out, or the season of the year – I'd see Neighbor on the porch, on the street, around the community. Whatever his income source, he always had a smile on his face, right below those knock off Oakley's, obscured by an aluminum can or the slight sepia tone of the smoke of a blunt.
Although I am a skinny, unassuming white boy who grew up in an ethnically monochromatic farm town in southeast Iowa, I felt oddly at home in this antiquated apartment settled in an area notorious for shootings, drug transaction, and over-bassed low riders at any hour of the night. Friends who lived in “safer” parts of town were forced to enter the complex through Neighbor's haze and sermonizing, they'd always great me with a relieved sense of accomplishment, as if they'd traversed through a tribulation worthy of tears and hugs. The harrowed expressions of my guests always made me chuckle, and affirmed my belief that these people who lived around me were exactly that – people. They were not the caricatures of ghetto's and rap videos, narratives created by a narrow view of culture fed to me as a youth.
One Sunday morning that particularly enforced the confidence I carried I stepped out into the sunshine, and there was Neighbor, with two men enjoying their sacrament. The two gentlemen, upon seeing me, quickly made their pot scarce. But Neighbor, at this sign of attempted deception, simply let out a laugh.
“Aw, man! Yo'all ain't got nothin' to worry about! Is's Neighbuh!” He said to his attentive listeners, then turned to me and, with an outstretched hand offered, “Neighbuh, you want some of this?”
“I'm trying to quit, but thank you.” I replied graciously. I chuckled as I walked to my car, amazed by the confidence that man had just had in me. In retrospect, I realize that not only was he sending me a message of faith, but he was also using me as a way to send a clear message to his acolytes. Neighbor was in control of the situation, and while you were smoking on his porch, there was nothing to worry about.
This level of self-certainty in his ability to keep things cool gave me a similar confidence while living in that building. While I never had to utilize it, I always felt like I could rely on Neighbor's assistance. If a tussle arose, or if I needed credibility in that often times ominous neighborhood, he was the man I would go to.
I have since moved out of that old sandstone complex. My new place is surrounded by quaint cottages with neatly trimmed lawns and sculpted shrubs. I don't know many of my neighbors, and the ones I've met are much less endearing then Neighbor. They keep to themselves, avoid eye contact as we pass in the hall, as if they are afraid of inconveniencing me with the emotional connection that might be exchanged. And not surprising, I don't feel near as secure in this new place as I did back in the old apartment.
I saw him the other day as I was passing through the old neighborhood. I almost stopped to attempt to reconnect with Neighbor, but I resisted. I think I was afraid that my memory of our relationship and the appreciation I felt toward this anomalous man would not be reciprocated, and I'd rather retain the pleasant memories I had of our transient interactions than chance the reality that Neighbor had no memories of our forced proximity and bore no kind reminiscence as I did.
So I drove on by. And neighbor lives on, Steel Reserve™ in one hand, joint in the other.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
The Accordion
I bought an accordion. No I do not play the accordion. Yet. Do I intend to join a German polka band? No. Collect Euro's on the crooked streets of Florence? Someday.
There is no clear 5 year plan for me and my accordion. This was by no means a practical purchase. When asked why I wanted an instrument that has been utilized by the likes of Weird Al and Steve Urkel I thought,
“Because there are so many possibilities!”
I was envisioning a different musical style. I imagined the musings of the Decemberists and Flogging Molly. I've been learning on old country songs by the Statler Brothers and Johnny Horton.
For as long as I've played collaborative music, I've been the band mate with the eccentric musical proffering. When I started writing music with my college friends, I was featured on trombone on many of the tracks. So why was the accordion any different?
The accordion was different because I actively sought this quirky arm organ. The trombone was a default assignment carried over from the fifth grade – the only instrument I could play if I wanted to keep up with my friends who played guitar like they'd been doing it in the womb.
So why make myself the focus of such scorn? I think I like the idea of playing the accordion. Sure, I think the haunting tones of the strudella bass are majestic, and the reeded wails of the keys eerily captivating, but I like the idea that no one else plays one. At least no one I know. I like the exclusivity. I like the idea of telling people I play the accordion, something I've been careful not to utter thus far. I have an accordion, I do not play the accordion. Yet.
This whole thing may sound arrogant – that I like the aesthetic appeal of the instrument. Maybe it just sounds asanine. But it is also the intrigue. It's a conversation piece, this bellowed organ that straps to my chest and scares the living daylights out of my basset hound. That is also part of why I love the accordion. In my appreciation for the culture and lifestyle of the bluegrass world, I feel that a hound dog baying on the front porch while I make music would authenticate me as a true folk musician.
I've got the hound dog. Now I just need the front porch.
There is no clear 5 year plan for me and my accordion. This was by no means a practical purchase. When asked why I wanted an instrument that has been utilized by the likes of Weird Al and Steve Urkel I thought,
“Because there are so many possibilities!”
I was envisioning a different musical style. I imagined the musings of the Decemberists and Flogging Molly. I've been learning on old country songs by the Statler Brothers and Johnny Horton.
For as long as I've played collaborative music, I've been the band mate with the eccentric musical proffering. When I started writing music with my college friends, I was featured on trombone on many of the tracks. So why was the accordion any different?
The accordion was different because I actively sought this quirky arm organ. The trombone was a default assignment carried over from the fifth grade – the only instrument I could play if I wanted to keep up with my friends who played guitar like they'd been doing it in the womb.
So why make myself the focus of such scorn? I think I like the idea of playing the accordion. Sure, I think the haunting tones of the strudella bass are majestic, and the reeded wails of the keys eerily captivating, but I like the idea that no one else plays one. At least no one I know. I like the exclusivity. I like the idea of telling people I play the accordion, something I've been careful not to utter thus far. I have an accordion, I do not play the accordion. Yet.
This whole thing may sound arrogant – that I like the aesthetic appeal of the instrument. Maybe it just sounds asanine. But it is also the intrigue. It's a conversation piece, this bellowed organ that straps to my chest and scares the living daylights out of my basset hound. That is also part of why I love the accordion. In my appreciation for the culture and lifestyle of the bluegrass world, I feel that a hound dog baying on the front porch while I make music would authenticate me as a true folk musician.
I've got the hound dog. Now I just need the front porch.
Friday, May 28, 2010
I've never ridden in a Cadillac
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It was one of those winters that you'll never forget. One of the first winters I spent in Davenport, so one that will stick with me forever, branding Davenport Iowa as a city that has horrible, icy winters. In reality, the 3 years that I spent in davenport had fairly mild winters, but this was the first, so this was the one that had a lasting impression.
This winter was not bad because of the amount of snow. It was not even bad because of the temperature, which was frigid. The prevailing aspect of this winter that, to this day brings dread to my heart, was the ice. There were multiple ice storms and intermittent warm spells that would melt and refreeze, leaving ice as much 12 inches deep in some streets. The cars would drive through and create ruts in the ice, forming inevitable tracks through the streets that would lead your car, as if beyond your control, where the last car had gone.
It was on a particularly frosty morning that I came across Rita. Rita was a leathery woman with a scowl that shown through the most toothy grin. Her hair was a frazzled yellow gray mane that refused to be tamed by brush or hat, even in this arctic clime. Rita was known around the neighborhood as being crazy.
The story goes that Rita used to be a flight attendant. She would travel the country with her job, and was very good at what she did. But one day, the flight she was on didn't reach its destination. The pilot crash landed the plane, and while no one died, Rita was diagnosed with post traumatic stress syndrome. This affliction has manifested itself in many ways.
That cold winter morning, Rita's illness appeared in an interesting way. As I was driving to work, I noticed Rita on the street. She was wearing a sundress, a raincoat, and sandals. No winter coat, no sensible shoes, no hat. She didn't look miserable, but I could not fathom how she could be anything but hypothermic. So I pulled up along side Rita and asked if she needed a ride.
“Oh sure! I'm headin' to down to 3rd and Iowa Street.”
Her voice was vaguely southern in dialect, with a whimsical quality that could only be described as Blanche DuBois after smoking cheap cigars and drinking a fifth of whiskey. A lovely singsong cadence on an instrument that had long given out and only worked in screeches and rasps.
As we exited the parking lot and jostled over the uneven ice, Rita let out what I can only describe as a cackle – an unbridled giggle that, in another body, could be contagious, but coming from Rita, it was simply eerie.
“Are you a St. Ambrose Student?” She asked with a half grin.
I replied “No, I graduated from Monmouth College, last year.”
“Oh, Monmouth! I had a girl friend who went to Monmouth... She had a boy down there... I never went to Monmouth, but I visited... They were such beautiful people. I loved watching all the beautiful people...” her sentence trailed off as her eyes glazed and stared out the window.
At this point her eyes caught a panel on the door. My 2004 Toyota Corolla was equipped with automatic windows that were controlled from a faux wood panel on the arm rest. Stroking the poor mans mahogany accent, Rita mused, “I never thought I'd ride in a Cadillac...”
Unsure of what to say, I sat quietly, focusing on navigating the icy side streets. Rita's gaze floated from me to the wood on the door to a point in the distance. Under her breath she mused, “To dream the impossible...”
“DREAM!” I thought. The tension of here unpredictability was unnerving. Rita had always made me uneasy, but I was beginning to regret offering her a ride.
Luckily we we're nearing the place where I was to drop her off. Still a few blocks away, she turned to me and asked “Well, do you have any...Last requests?” then let out another cackle, solidifying the feeling of dread.
I couldn't tell if she thought she was a lounge singer or an executioner, but her instability was not something I wanted to test. I quickly found a space along the side walk and put the car in park. She sidled out of the vehicle with surprising fluidity and grace. As she wandered away from me and towards the warehouse on the corner, she turned and gave me one final toothy grin and a wiggle of her fingers, then laughed as she turned the corner.
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I'm going to start taking select essays and developing them as podcasts. Stay tuned for more radio versions of my laughable tales of oddity and self deprecation.
It was one of those winters that you'll never forget. One of the first winters I spent in Davenport, so one that will stick with me forever, branding Davenport Iowa as a city that has horrible, icy winters. In reality, the 3 years that I spent in davenport had fairly mild winters, but this was the first, so this was the one that had a lasting impression.
This winter was not bad because of the amount of snow. It was not even bad because of the temperature, which was frigid. The prevailing aspect of this winter that, to this day brings dread to my heart, was the ice. There were multiple ice storms and intermittent warm spells that would melt and refreeze, leaving ice as much 12 inches deep in some streets. The cars would drive through and create ruts in the ice, forming inevitable tracks through the streets that would lead your car, as if beyond your control, where the last car had gone.
It was on a particularly frosty morning that I came across Rita. Rita was a leathery woman with a scowl that shown through the most toothy grin. Her hair was a frazzled yellow gray mane that refused to be tamed by brush or hat, even in this arctic clime. Rita was known around the neighborhood as being crazy.
The story goes that Rita used to be a flight attendant. She would travel the country with her job, and was very good at what she did. But one day, the flight she was on didn't reach its destination. The pilot crash landed the plane, and while no one died, Rita was diagnosed with post traumatic stress syndrome. This affliction has manifested itself in many ways.
That cold winter morning, Rita's illness appeared in an interesting way. As I was driving to work, I noticed Rita on the street. She was wearing a sundress, a raincoat, and sandals. No winter coat, no sensible shoes, no hat. She didn't look miserable, but I could not fathom how she could be anything but hypothermic. So I pulled up along side Rita and asked if she needed a ride.
“Oh sure! I'm headin' to down to 3rd and Iowa Street.”
Her voice was vaguely southern in dialect, with a whimsical quality that could only be described as Blanche DuBois after smoking cheap cigars and drinking a fifth of whiskey. A lovely singsong cadence on an instrument that had long given out and only worked in screeches and rasps.
As we exited the parking lot and jostled over the uneven ice, Rita let out what I can only describe as a cackle – an unbridled giggle that, in another body, could be contagious, but coming from Rita, it was simply eerie.
“Are you a St. Ambrose Student?” She asked with a half grin.
I replied “No, I graduated from Monmouth College, last year.”
“Oh, Monmouth! I had a girl friend who went to Monmouth... She had a boy down there... I never went to Monmouth, but I visited... They were such beautiful people. I loved watching all the beautiful people...” her sentence trailed off as her eyes glazed and stared out the window.
At this point her eyes caught a panel on the door. My 2004 Toyota Corolla was equipped with automatic windows that were controlled from a faux wood panel on the arm rest. Stroking the poor mans mahogany accent, Rita mused, “I never thought I'd ride in a Cadillac...”
Unsure of what to say, I sat quietly, focusing on navigating the icy side streets. Rita's gaze floated from me to the wood on the door to a point in the distance. Under her breath she mused, “To dream the impossible...”
“DREAM!” I thought. The tension of here unpredictability was unnerving. Rita had always made me uneasy, but I was beginning to regret offering her a ride.
Luckily we we're nearing the place where I was to drop her off. Still a few blocks away, she turned to me and asked “Well, do you have any...Last requests?” then let out another cackle, solidifying the feeling of dread.
I couldn't tell if she thought she was a lounge singer or an executioner, but her instability was not something I wanted to test. I quickly found a space along the side walk and put the car in park. She sidled out of the vehicle with surprising fluidity and grace. As she wandered away from me and towards the warehouse on the corner, she turned and gave me one final toothy grin and a wiggle of her fingers, then laughed as she turned the corner.
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