MJ (The Musical One)

The first LP I ever bought, probably at the age of 11 or 12, was ABC by the Jackson 5. Released in May 1970, the album featured two #1 hits: "ABC" and "The Love You Save." I was in the 6th grade, and I remember having this running playful argument with the girls in my class that Michael Jackson was better than Donny Osmond. The course of their careers--to some extent--seems to have proven me right. Even though I grew out of that ABC phase pretty quickly (Thriller and "We Are the World" were the only other related items that I bought), I maintained a nostalgic connection with Michael Jackson: we're both named Michael, we were born just three months apart in 1958 and so on.

His death is a sad affair in several ways and on several different levels.

I woke up this morning feeling a sense of unease. Not that I was thinking about Jackson's death, really, but a certain grayness to the dawn seemed to hold back the light more than usual.

For Mark and Tom and Sam and Skyler

From the Writer's Almanac for 22 June 2009

Baseball (by John Updike)

It looks easy from a distance,
easy and lazy, even,
until you stand up to the plate
and see the fastball sailing inside,
an inch from your chin,
or circle in the outfield
straining to get a bead
on a small black dot
a city block or more high,
a dark star that could fall
on your head like a leaden meteor.

The grass, the dirt, the deadly hops
between your feet and overeager glove:
football can be learned,
and basketball finessed, but
there is no hiding from baseball
the fact that some are chosen
and some are not—those whose mitts
feel too left-handed,
who are scared at third base
of the pulled line drive,
and at first base are scared
of the shortstop's wild throw
that stretches you out like a gutted deer.

There is nowhere to hide when the ball's
spotlight swivels your way,
and the chatter around you falls still,
and the mothers on the sidelines,
your own among them, hold their breaths,
and you whiff on a terrible pitch
or in the infield achieve
something with the ball so
ridiculous you blush for years.
It's easy to do. Baseball was
invented in America, where beneath
the good cheer and sly jazz the chance
of failure is everybody's right,
beginning with baseball.

"Baseball" by John Updike, from Endpoint and Other Poems. © Alfred A. Knopf, 2009. Reprinted with permission.

Zuma

I'm writing from Zuma, a coffeehouse in downtown Marshall, NC. Zuma is a cool place that occupies the space of the old Home Electric, which was here when I was growing up in this area. Mom and Dad bought their appliances from Home Electric--washer, dryer, refrigerator and so on. My uncle Harold traded instruments--mandolins and fiddles with a guy who worked here for years. Leonard Baker was the owner of Home Electric, and my brother Jerry rented a garage apartment from his wife Lib and him for many years--late '80s, I think, until a couple of years ago--for $150 a month. Probably not many deals like that around any more.

I traveled to Nashville recently and spent a couple of days with my good friends Mark and jb there (along with Mark's wife Becky and son Tom). We had a fine time eating, remembering the old days, watching baseball, driving around. I was a little sorry to have to leave.

While I was there, a wild hair sent me to the telephone book on the off chance that I might learn the whereabouts of a man I knew as Earl Richards but whose real name was Earl Sinks. We worked together for a lot of years, and it wasn't until after we'd been finished with each other for several more years that I found out he was crooked, using me and my music for his own personal gain. I guess I should've brought along a dozen eggs when I found his house, but I didn't.

More on that later.

Anyway, it was during this trip that I remembered that once upon a time on this blog I was in the process of telling my Nashville story. I think that I got through all of my "Prelude to Nashville" but no further. I'll try to pick that up again soon.

Thanks again to Mark and jb for a great little trip. And, Earl, I'm thinking about forgiveness, but I have a story to tell first.

Homecoming

A little video I made some years ago for "Homecoming."

Churches

I'm always interested in little churches that I see on the side of the road, and I think I'll begin a photo archive and post some of them here from time to time. Lots of little roadside churches look familiar, with steeples and such. Others are different.

Take this one, for example. The last time I remember noticing this building on Old Jonesborough Highway (or West Walnut Street), it was some kind of little consignment shop. Obviously in its past, it's been a convenience store and gas station. Notice the Pepsi sign that has survived from whenever it was a store.

So, I'm interested in these buildings. I'm interested in their names. This one is "Open Arms Full Gospel Church." I wonder how they pick their names and what they mean to the person or persons who establish the church. I'm interested in who attends on Sunday mornings (if they meet on Sunday morning). I wonder if the congregation came ready-made, trailing some preacher or other, and I wonder if anybody would drive by this place on, say, a Thursday afternoon and decide to visit it on the following Sunday.

From time to time, as I run across these, I'll post a picture and add whatever information I have about the place and whatever musings cross my mind.