I love country music. I always have. I guess probably because my folks listened to it when I was growing up. My dad’s favorite artist was Ernest Tubbs and my mom’s was Eddy Arnold. I loved them both, along with Marty Robbins, Merle Haggard and even Buck Owens and his red, white and blue guitar.
My love of country never left me. While there was a time I loved and listened to artists like, Bachman, Turner Overdrive and Creedence Clearwater Revival, because everyone I knew was listening to them, my true love was the country artists. As I got older, I realized I had to leave rock n-roll completely behind. I just couldn’t listen to it. In the 80-s, country saw a resurgence in popularity because of the movie Urban Cowboy, I guess. John Travolta must have made it cool. All of a sudden country music was popular, and Barbara Mandrel came out with the hit, I Was Country When County Wasn’t Cool. I could relate; that was me. There has never been a time in my life when I didn’t listen to country music.
I like the beat - the 2-4 time; I love the steel guitar and the mandolin. I love being able to understand the words the singers are singing and I love the down to earth message that most songs bring. Yes, even Toby! You don’t think Toby should be included in “down to earth” singers? Listen, again! He’s awesome.
But anyway, I was scanning the channels this morning for something to watch and I landed on GAC - Great American Country. A new artist was singing his newly released single. I had never heard of this guy before, but his song caused me to reflect on why I love country so much. I guess because it is just so “Real”:
Five-hundred channels and there ain't much on tonight
Except reality shows about some folk's so-called lives
A pretty girl cries 'cause she don't get a rose
But she'll find love next year on her own show
And they call that real
Real is a hand you hold fifty-seven years
Real is a band of gold tremblin' with fear
It's the first long tear down an old man's face,
watchin' his angel slippin' away
His heart's so broke, it's never gonna heal
I call that real
Where I live, housewives don't act like that
And the survivors are farmers in John Deere hats
Our amazin' race is beatin' the check
Prayin' that the bank ain't ran it through yet
Real, like too much rain fallin' from the sky
Real, like the drought that came around here last July
It's the dust, boll weevils and the market and the weeds,
the prayer they're sayin' when they plant the seeds
And the chance they take to bring us our next meal
I call that real
Real, like a job you lose 'cause it moves to Mexico
Like a mama and a baby with no safe place to go
Like a little dream-house with a big old foreclosed sign
Like a flag-draped coffin and a twenty-one gun goodbye
I call that real
Man, I call that real
Oh, I call that real
REAL- James Wesley
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
My Daddy and His Fish
“It was pouring down rain, but I knew we were going to be there awhile”, she laughingly told us as we talked. “I wanted to tell him to just cut the line because dinner was ready; but I knew he would never do that and leave that fish with a bothersome hook in his mouth.”
“We were absolutely soaked; it looked like we had been swimming and we were surrounded by darkness!”
My dad and mom, – ages 85 and 84 respectively - had once again taken their annual “steelheadin’ ” trip to the Lewiston area of the Clearwater River. Married for 60 years and steelhead fishing for close to 30 of those years, they were now at home again, eagerly sharing some stories with my sisters and me.
That fish that night was in the fight of his life, with a contender on the other end of the pole that almost always wins. As the old saying goes, “If one gets hooked on steelhead, it can be terminal.” Or at least something close to that. I have to admit there have been times with my dad, I did indeed wonder; this being one of those times.
Dad was just about ready to quit for the day when he “got a bite” as he fished from the bridge. While he held the pole and kept the tension in the line just right, he walked from the bridge down the bank so that he would be able to finish the fight and land this big guy. He could tell by the struggle it was giving him that this was a big fish and it would most likely take a while before he would land it. If he tried to rush it, he risked losing.
An hour and ½ later, in the drenching rain and October chill, Dad landed that steelhead. It ended up being the largest fish he caught this season, weighing more than 20 pounds. This was just prior to opening day, and while catch and release is allowed, keeping any fish caught prior to opening date and keeping the natives is not. Mom watched patiently as she held the flashlight, while Dad held the fish in the water, running it back and forth to be sure it was fully revived before releasing his catch back into the river. It wasn’t long before the fish was swimming away, and my folks returned to their camp; Dad satisfied with another successful endeavor at landing steelhead; and Mom shaking her head and kind of wondering about that “terminal thing”.
Dad caught 11 fish this trip, releasing 8 and bringing home 3 from their 2 weeks on the Clearwater River. The largest was the 20 pound Native that Dad caught and released that evening underneath the bridge. The smallest was a 15 pound female hatchery fish that he was able to bring home with him. In the picture below is an 18 pound 36” inch male hatchery fish that Dad landed on the final day of their trip.
Have you ever just tried to lift one of those fish?!! I'd say that little statistic above is pretty awesome for an 85 year old man. ..and I claim bragging rights! ;-)
“We were absolutely soaked; it looked like we had been swimming and we were surrounded by darkness!”
My dad and mom, – ages 85 and 84 respectively - had once again taken their annual “steelheadin’ ” trip to the Lewiston area of the Clearwater River. Married for 60 years and steelhead fishing for close to 30 of those years, they were now at home again, eagerly sharing some stories with my sisters and me.
That fish that night was in the fight of his life, with a contender on the other end of the pole that almost always wins. As the old saying goes, “If one gets hooked on steelhead, it can be terminal.” Or at least something close to that. I have to admit there have been times with my dad, I did indeed wonder; this being one of those times.
Dad was just about ready to quit for the day when he “got a bite” as he fished from the bridge. While he held the pole and kept the tension in the line just right, he walked from the bridge down the bank so that he would be able to finish the fight and land this big guy. He could tell by the struggle it was giving him that this was a big fish and it would most likely take a while before he would land it. If he tried to rush it, he risked losing.
An hour and ½ later, in the drenching rain and October chill, Dad landed that steelhead. It ended up being the largest fish he caught this season, weighing more than 20 pounds. This was just prior to opening day, and while catch and release is allowed, keeping any fish caught prior to opening date and keeping the natives is not. Mom watched patiently as she held the flashlight, while Dad held the fish in the water, running it back and forth to be sure it was fully revived before releasing his catch back into the river. It wasn’t long before the fish was swimming away, and my folks returned to their camp; Dad satisfied with another successful endeavor at landing steelhead; and Mom shaking her head and kind of wondering about that “terminal thing”.
Dad caught 11 fish this trip, releasing 8 and bringing home 3 from their 2 weeks on the Clearwater River. The largest was the 20 pound Native that Dad caught and released that evening underneath the bridge. The smallest was a 15 pound female hatchery fish that he was able to bring home with him. In the picture below is an 18 pound 36” inch male hatchery fish that Dad landed on the final day of their trip.
Have you ever just tried to lift one of those fish?!! I'd say that little statistic above is pretty awesome for an 85 year old man. ..and I claim bragging rights! ;-)
 |
| My Daddy and His Fish |
 |
| Sissie, Mr. Steelhead, and Dad |
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
More Autumn
Boy, I am enjoying these beautiful autumn mornings. This is the kind of fall weather I look forward to each year, but I was so afraid we weren't going to get it this year. I don't know why, but autumn has always stirred so many memories for me; it always feels like a time to reflect on my past. That is not a bad thing, as long as one doesn't stay there too long. I think it is the settling in feeling, but autumn always reminds me of my childhood and school, it reminds me of my first days at college when everything was new and exciting. "Nature" always seems more intense in autumn; smells cleaner, air crisper, days calmer. It's a time of change, and it's a time of rest before the snows fall and the busyness of the holidays begin.
Another poem comes to mind during this time. I love the diction and colloquialisms that James Whitcomb Riley chose to use in this poem. It's a part of our past, it's our roots; and it's charming. Our most educated language scholar could not even come close to capturing the experience and sentiment that Mr. Riley has captured in this poem. I love it; I hope you will take the time to read it...then read it again.
When the Frost is on the Punkin
James Whitcomb Riley. 1853–1916
WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here—
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps;
And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!...
I don't know how to tell it—but ef such a thing could be
As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me—
I'd want to 'commodate 'em—all the whole-indurin' flock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
Another poem comes to mind during this time. I love the diction and colloquialisms that James Whitcomb Riley chose to use in this poem. It's a part of our past, it's our roots; and it's charming. Our most educated language scholar could not even come close to capturing the experience and sentiment that Mr. Riley has captured in this poem. I love it; I hope you will take the time to read it...then read it again.
When the Frost is on the Punkin
James Whitcomb Riley. 1853–1916
WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here—
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps;
And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!...
I don't know how to tell it—but ef such a thing could be
As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me—
I'd want to 'commodate 'em—all the whole-indurin' flock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Autumn
September
Helen Hunt Jackson (1830-1885)
The golden-rod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown; The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun.
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun.
The sedges flaunt their harvest,
In every meadow nook;
And asters by the brook-side
Make asters in the brook,
And asters by the brook-side
Make asters in the brook,
From dewy lanes at morning
The grapes' sweet odors riseAt noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies.
By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer's best of weather,
And autumn's best of cheer.
My fourth grade teacher (See my blog: The Hug That Teaches - February - http://jan-butterfliesandrainbows.blogspot.com/2010/02/she-was-one-of-those-people-that-you.html ) made her class memorize this lovely poem and I think I have recited it in my mind just about every fall since then. Ok, well I only remembered verses 1, 2 and 5; I had to google the rest. And I didn’t remember it was Helen Hunt Jackson that wrote it. That fact I found very interesting after owning my book store and having some of her books in my stock. There are still two more verses to this poem, but Mrs. Hunter didn't require us to memorize the last two. I agree with my teacher's decision. These 5 are the best of Ms. Jackson's poem.
While it is no longer September, I definitely woke up to that kind of day today; so the poem went through my mind once again. I think it is beautiful, so I wanted to post it along with some photos
from my yard that I took this morning….
I know! I will never be a photographer, but I had fun out there in the yard this morning trying to get some photos of the lingering effects of Mr. Frost's visit again last night. This visit was not at all unexpected, but 25 degrees? Ouch! Have mercy!! ;-)
from my yard that I took this morning….
I know! I will never be a photographer, but I had fun out there in the yard this morning trying to get some photos of the lingering effects of Mr. Frost's visit again last night. This visit was not at all unexpected, but 25 degrees? Ouch! Have mercy!! ;-)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
