Jim Baumer's Blog, page 10

Retreat at Work

Having a “regular job” the past 7 ½ years hasn’t been the norm for me. Project work, consulting, tutoring, along with freelancing, sprinkled a few other “moonlighting” gigs have gotten me through. This followed what felt at the time was being “kicked to the curve.” A role I was perfectly suited for and really loved being in, ended when our idiot governor at the time thought he knew better than anyone how the state’s workforce development system functioned, and de-funded parts of it. His petulance at the time affected me directly and ended six years of successful local and statewide initiatives.

In August, I went back to work. My new position is a part-time one. I’m still surviving as a writer. This requires maintaining a patchwork-quilt of income streams. I’m also spending a few Saturdays each month advising young drivers on safer practices behind the wheel.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure embracing change would end well, or even last more than a few weeks. But I’d been a satisfied consumer at this not-for-profit committed to delivering healthcare in a way that still values the patient, so I knew firsthand that their core values were genuine. When I learned they were looking for people with customer service experience and skills, I applied.

Being in a healthcare setting as an employee isn’t that far afield for me. One of my better jobs I had found me landing at Healthsource back in 1997, when they were still locally managed.

I joined Healthsource along with an amazing group of people. We all came from various places and work experiences. Yet, we developed a collegiality that’s all-too-rare in a work setting. Then, Cigna swooped in and things changed overnight. In a manner of six months, most of us had gone elsewhere, along with the management team. Corporate culture is soul-less, and Cigna’s was awful.

Change is hard.

I’m reminded of those days during my four weekly shifts answering calls from patients in a contact center. The contact center has only been open for a year. There have been growing pains, as centralizing and standardizing how patients access services was a decision made as the way to go (and grow).

Many of us have been there for less than six months. This contributes to the freshness and energy that in part driven by the “honeymoon” that most of us feel in a new job. But it’s more than that, I think. I’ve observed a genuine attempt to balance business needs with valuing the people who form the core of the customer experience.

I’m not easily impressed. No one would ever mistake me for being a Pollyanna. Yet, the initial training and ongoing support has been far superior to any other place where I’ve been employed. That includes an iconic customer service model that’s headquartered not far from where I’m currently working. Having spent a number of holiday seasons taking customer calls and understanding that customers are #1, I can say that the training where I’m at far exceeds that prior employment experience.

That doesn’t mean that my first 10+ weeks on the job haven’t been without a few speed bumps. I’ve even had days when I’ve left my car in the parking garage muttering under my breath, “this job sucks.” I’m sure that would be the case wherever I decided to park my skillset at work. At least where I’m at now, the pay is adequate, the benefits are excellent, and as call centers go, this one is a nice match with what I’m capable of delivering.

I was reminded that I made a good choice on Tuesday. We got to spend a half day in a team-building activity. The contact center stopped taking calls at 11:00 and our various clinics closed. This allowed sites and co-workers the opportunity to have a bit of fun, solidify work relationships, while also receiving important updates from management.

Since Mark was killed, I find it difficult to sit through BS and happy talk. During the first hour of our work retreat, I contemplated standing up and walking out. A few coworkers exited for various reasons. I suppose I could have come up with an excuse if I’d wanted to. I’m glad I stuck it out.

I found others who didn’t love various games and participating in Jenga, Cornhole, or other activities. Fun is fine—I’m just not a game-player by nature.

This small coterie was standing in the corner and I opted to try to inject myself in their conversation. I asked, “is this the non-game contingent?” They were actually talking about “poop.” Go figure.

Sometimes though, you have to push through the poop, right?

We learned that we shared similarities—geographically, knowing my new Biddeford neighbors and other elements from my time in Brunswick—as well as being empathetic in a way that’s been all-too-rare in my experience since losing Mark. One of them used to be directly involved with one of those old-fashioned red sauce Italian restaurants that Mary and I remember, but not with melancholy, have disappeared. This one was in Brunswick. Anyone remember Vincenzo’s, or simply, “Vinny’s” on Cushing Street? My mouth is watering thinking about signature dishes like eggplant parmigiana.

Like Graziano’s in my former hometown of Lisbon, Vincenzo’s (like Sportsman’s Grill and The Village Café in Portland) are no more. Change is always hard.

Speaking of change, one of them presented during the management/information segment. She shared about the stages of change. As a new contact center, we’re all experiencing these ups and downs. She handed out a laminated graphic similar to this one. I looked at it and said to another co-worker who knows my story, “these are the stages of grief.” Unbeknownst to me, this is based upon Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’s model about the five stages of grief.

Change is hard. It involves periods of being angry, despondent, and then, our outlook shifts. We never transcend the event that caused the floor of our life to open up and put two parents into free fall, but things do change. Sometimes, joy and understanding even make fleeting appearances.

I’m grateful that I work with a group of people that more often than not are genuine. They may never become best friends and our work day doesn’t allow much inter-mingling, but I’m glad to be on a team of individuals who are both human and humane.

Back in God’s Country

A week ago today, Mary and I were heading north on I-65, back to places where our young family began our life together. This is about as close as one gets to having what could be called a “time machine” or sorts.

Traveling back in time, via I-65.

A week later, news is still filtering forth from the Hoosier State, fallout from the newly-minted documentary, Barefoot: The Mark Baumer Story. We got to hear a welcome voice yesterday afternoon. It was Julie Sokolow, the filmmaker. She’s remained behind after we flew back and her cohorts headed back to Pittsburgh. The festival actually has continued for another week. We were thrilled to hear that her efforts at telling Mark’s story were rewarded. The film landed the Heartland International Film Festival’s Best Premier Documentary Feature. As Mark’s parents, this elicited more emotion—but this time it was something more joyful and made us less sad. We’re thrilled for Julie and the film’s team that worked so hard in capturing Mark as elegantly as they have.

Barefoot wins award at Heartland Film.

I think Sundays will forever be a day that I remember as one that once centered on God and church, especially back in the days we first pulled up in our rented U-Haul in front of the Bible school I would be attending. Last Sunday, we drove onto the grounds of Hyles-Anderson College, where every day was focused on those two elements, at least in a theoretical and experiential manner for a 22-year-old who’d felt “called to leave everything behind save for his pregnant wife and a few belongings.

But as I learned (the hard way) back then, that concepts about God and Jesus often get filtered through agendas, ideologies, and human imperfection. These things, which caused me great dissonance at the time, were also endemic in other similar religious settings like the one in Crown Point, Indiana, back in the 1980s.

The King and Queen of Hyles-Anderson College

Before we left the first of last week, we drove downtown. We’d forgotten it was Indigenous People’s Day, and the city of Indianapolis felt sleepy. The festival and our hotel had kept us out on the northeast outskirts of the state’s capital and largest city. We did end up driving into the central business district of the city on Saturday after the matinee screening of Barefoot. But before boarding the jet for Maine and our return to reality, we opted to make a quick stop near the canal area where people told us to visit, as well as see Market Square.

Downtown Indianapolis is also where the seat of state government resides. The state house is a short walk from the majestic fountain in Market Square, a geographic feature that Tom Petty sang about in his song “Last Dance With Mary Jane.” My last dance with Mary (Jo) in the land where Mark was born was also in proximity to the place Petty mentioned in the song.

Leaving something so formative and also affecting as Bible school and a man like Jack Hyles requires finding replacement rituals to the highly-scripted way-of-life we had forced upon us in our early 20s. For me, I’ve supplanted church and meaningless surmising about deities these days with a leisurely reading of the weekend New York Times most Sundays, fueled with coffee.

But back in Indiana a week ago, I thought a lot about Mark, our time in fundamentalism, and the multitude of memories from that place: I also thought about Mike Pence. What kind of governor was he? How did the state shape his views and beliefs and make him into the political opportunist that he’s become? This article details Pence in a way that’s different than most of the other ones out there. It also, in my mind, shows that his religious orientation is second to other more prominent ones, like his political ambition.

Peter Baker, a Times reporter who covers the political beat for the paper touches on the “Faustian bargain” that Pence made in hooking his political star to such an odious partner in Donald Trump. He does it in a book review in this morning’s Times’ book supplement about a new book about Pence written by Tom Lobianco called Piety & Power: Mike Pence and the Taking of the White House.

Pence obviously made a decision at some point to go against what orthodox theology is clear on, especially relative to Jesus and ignoring adultery, philandering, and hate, along with a host of other moral failures prominent in the president and his administration. In fact, Baker’s review of the book mentions how Pence’s wife, Karen, “was livid” when Trump’s Access Hollywood tape was made public, especially what Baker writes were “lurid” comments by the president. Apparently, Mrs. Pence refused to kiss the vice-president on election night saying, “You got what you wanted, Mike.” She then told him to “Leave me alone.”

I’m so glad that Julie ended up creating a parallel story in the documentary about Mark that touches on the run-up to Trump’s election because I do think it was a central element in the walk and what was going on in the country prior to Mark being killed.

Not knowing what was going to happen in terms of impeachment last March, I find it amazing that Julie came back to Maine to re-shoot some interviews with Mary and me, especially related to the election and thoughts Mark had been sharing and our own views about what was happening during the fall of 2016 tied to Trump.

At the time, we were both tired of being on film, pouring our hearts out in front of a camera and spending a weekend reliving painful memories. We’d done this once before. Why again?

Both of us have expressed that in viewing the beautiful final product, we’re gratified with it in how it truly honors Mark and his mission: it also has some real relevance to the time we are living in. That’s what great filmmakers are able to do and we’re thrilled that we have one in Julie Sokolow.

Mark was very clear about his mission. He never candy-coated how he felt about Donald Trump and his racist, sexist, homophobic, transphobic (and a host of other descriptors Mark used in his final video on Day 100) ideology intended to foster division and hatred.

Pence it seems has lost his way. Or perhaps he’s simply the kind of cunning, calculating Xian that I found fundamentalist religion crawling with in Indiana back in the 1980s. It’s obvious that little’s changed since with American religion. He now has access to power—and he’s now one impeachment (if the president is convicted and removed from office) from his ultimate goal of being president.

I’m no Bible scholar (although I’ll put my knowledge of scripture up against anyone’s because I’ve read the Good Book extensively, as well at theology texts), but blind ambition and the quest for the things of this world (like power) seem to run counter to what Jesus taught his followers.

A Journey That Never Ends

Grief is primarily a solitary slog. If you and your partner end up being thrust into the position of having to share in the journey, then there are times when your parallel paths join and then, depart again.

Briefly, there are times when others come alongside: We both experienced this in the days and weeks following Mark’s death. But then, people go back to wherever they were before the tragedy occurred.

In a nation where our empathy deficit is just one of a host of maladies, this inability of other people to understand at first is maddening, then it becomes the source of anger (or sadness), then eventually you simply stop caring. You are left alone to live in a place you never considered before—but there you are—a ghost among the living.

This weekend, in addition to being pleased with the documentary that was made about Mark, we got to spend time with people who reminded us both of Mark. They were a lot like who he was, believing that our better angels might win out. The filmmaker, Julie Sokolow, is a force to be reckoned with. It would have been enough for Mary and me to have a wonderful film. But, to see Julie in her element, bringing her “A game” to the Heartland International Film Festival, on message in interviews, was a thing to behold. She’s also so easy to be around and we come to consider her a friend in addition to the woman who gets to tell Mark’s story in documentary form. Having spent so much time with Mark and his memories she’s forged a unique connection with his parents.

Barefoot: The Mark Baumer Story (poster by Jim Rugg)

In addition to Julie, her partner Kurt, along with Olivia (the film’s producer), her partner Nate, and Ryan Will Stewart, the composer who scored the film, we were offered a chance to be with people we admire and simply enjoyed being in proximity to. It was one of those rare stretches for us, to be around people who possess many of the qualities that our son carried with him over his adult life.

I also recall times in my life when I’d drive three, four, or even longer stretches to see a band of people I didn’t know except that I liked their music. If Mark had been a friend of mine from school, I think I’d have made the effort to make it out to his premiere.

We both heard so many words at Mark’s celebration of life. Some of these words formed pledges of sorts about being there for his parents. But alas, words are simply words. Words without actions are especially hollow.

I’ll try to come back and share a bit more about Indianapolis. It wasn’t a particularly interesting place. Returning to the place where so many memories our our time as a unit of three were first forged more than two hours away from Indy wasn’t much fun, either. Oh, and flying absolutely sucks, more now, than ever. I simply can’t stand being in such close proximity with total strangers.

Songs About Rachel

Someone who I considered a friend once told me I couldn’t play guitar.

I’m playing and over the last month, I’ve written four songs and three of them now sit up on SoundCloud. I don’t think he’s got anything out there I can listen to.

Canadian singer-songwriter and guitarist, Bruce Cockburn, has a line in “Lovers In a Dangerous Time” that goes, “got to kick at the darkness ’til it bleed daylight.” Playing guitar and writing for the instrument is me, kicking at the darkness that nearly swallowed me, nine months ago.

Sunday, I read an excellent feature by Amanda Hess in the New York Times Magazine, on Rachel Maddow. I’d highly recommend you take the time to go through it.

I’ve been a fan of Ms. Maddow, or simply “Rachel” as I call her when I speak about her to Mary or others that share similar views on the state of politics in America. On Monday, I came up with some lyrics in my head, while swimming prior to work. I jotted them down on a legal pad and when I returned home in the middle of the afternoon, I had a song.

Then, I had to come up with a chord progression and I had that completed by dinnertime. I played it for Mary when she came home.

Tonight, I decided to record “Rachel, Rachel” before going to bed.

That’s how I roll these days. And I appreciate former friends who motivate me to do things that they said I couldn’t do—like play guitar and write songs.

Mark on the other hand would tell me, “keep doing what you’re doing, dad.” I keep that thought close to my heart, always.

 

The Gift of Affirmation

There are people who validate—and there are people who criticize. From my vantage point, I’m of the opinion that there are more of the latter than the former—but there are certainly a significant number that live in that first category—they make building people up rather than tearing them down a priority.

I’m trying to spend more time with the validation crowd than with the critical set. I also know firsthand that being validated can carry you forward for days and weeks, while being criticized (whether valid or even offered in a constructive manner) makes you want to run and hide. It totally sucks and drains whatever energy you had at that moment.

I know plenty about laboring in obscurity while following my passion and rarely, if ever, receiving compliments or recognition. It’s what I’ve been doing for most of the past twenty years as a writer.

During that period, I think I can number on both hands the people that I’d consider real fans or people who’ve taken the time to routinely acknowledge a blog post I’ve written, or mention one of the numerous articles I’ve had published, or tell me they’ve read one of my books. One of these is someone who I don’t know very well. She’s also a wonderful writer and we see each other maybe two times a year. But a month ago she was in a town in Maine and walking by a book shop. She happened to see my Moxie book. She took the time to send me an email when she got back to Portland and let me know that and reminded me that she knew I was still out here.

During the summer of 2018 I decided I wanted to play the guitar, or maybe, play it better. Part of the reason I wasn’t progressing with my playing is that I didn’t play regularly. Actually, prior to the start of the adult ed class I enrolled in, my guitar had been sitting in the case collecting dust for more than two years. Yet, I was inclined to sign-up with a talented musician and instructor.

Then, my SI joint decided to make simply moving a major task. After one initial class, I was unable to continue.

There’s a silver lining to taking a class that I surely didn’t get maximum value from enrolling in: attending that one class reminded me that I wasn’t totally bereft of skills. I’d played enough that I had a vocabulary of basic chords and I could navigate simple chord changes and rudimentary progressions. Oddly, I went expected to be the worst guitarist in the class. It turned out that I was probably the most advanced in what was advertised as an intermediate class. Still, I managed to “wash out” and I was discouraged. This and physical pain and immobility being heaped atop a mound of fallout from the grief of losing Mark compounded what was a very difficult summer of feeling isolated and alone.

How the hell did I find my way forward from there?

On Sunday morning, enjoying my initial cup of coffee, I thought about that. Saturday, I recorded a lo-fi version of a song I wrote called “Upside-down World.” It’s very different than the more mellow, indie-folk style of “Walking Down the Road.” The new song is a three-chord stomper that probably comes from my penchant for punk and the indie-inspired music I still love to listen to. There might even be influences of Neil Young’s “Greendale” period in the tune.

Several weeks back, I began playing to drum tracks periodically when practicing. I’ve found a bunch of great tracks including some by a guy named Jim Dooley. I’m grateful that he’s made these available. I found a 125 BPM (beats per minute) rock track that I played over. It’s perfect for the song and really adds a rock feel to the rudimentary recording I made and posted to SoundcCloud.

Two weeks ago, we had a party at our house. It’s hard to live and feel normal after devastating loss. I think it’s even more difficult to get back to doing things that used to matter, even temporal things like asking people to come over and see a new house.

In the past, we’d always feel like if we were having people over, we wanted them to enjoy themselves. Entertaining and hosting a gathering seems to be a holdover from a time that’s long gone—and I’m not talking about a time when Mark was still with us, I’m talking about an era when people valued seeing one another and actually cultivated coming together. There’s an entire cottage industry of writing that addresses the loss of connection and doing things communally that I’ve come back to on this blog time and time again.

Part of me that entertained a notion that perhaps I’d roll out my song I’d written for Mark, “Walking Down the Road.” But, I’m still a little uncertain about playing live. I’m not comfortable enough as a performer yet, to simply grab my guitar and start singing. I’m not sure some professional musicians are, to be honest.

One dear friend, who I met when I was writing my first book, asked if I’d play my song—she said she’d like to hear it. The two of us have been dealt some tough hands since we used to see each other regularly while working in the same community. The geography that separates us makes getting together a rarity, but something to treasure. I’m grateful that we’ve remained connected and in touch, even if it’s often by email or phone these days.

When I played, I noticed that people were listening. Some were moved. I got to play it in front of other people. I made few mistakes, but I was happy I got to perform it.

A friend of my wife told me she was surprised that I had such a good singing voice. Another said my singing reminded him of Gram Parsons. This was validation I needed.

My goal is to take my music out to an open mic in October or November. That’s the next logical step. Maybe a few friends will be motivated to come out and cheer me on.

Upside-Down World

I wrote another song. This one is a bit more up-tempo.

I’m sure the critics (who don’t write songs) will tell me that my recording process sucks, or that my chord changes are awkward, or that there’s too much fret buzz, or whatever the fuck that haters always manage to inject into everything.

No worries—I’ll just keep on playing!

Building a list of songs.

 

Fatigue

I am tired. That’s a statement about physically feeling a dearth of energy at the end of each and every day. Likely it’s due to trying to cram as much as I can into a 24-hour span. Having a new job and also working at another part-time gig, while taking a class at USM probably has something to do with feeling “wrung-out.”

Here’s a litany of some specific things that I’m tired of as in being “sick” of:

Our president

Cancer

People who suck

Assumptions about grief and loss

Family members who can’t be bothered to be there for me

Friends who can’t be bothered to be there (ever) for me

Morons

Distracted drivers

Feeling sad

Constantly being excluded (as a plant-based vegan) in dietary options at work, school, and just about every place else.

Note: I am happy that places like Rover Bagel in Biddo and the Hannaford Supermarkets recognize that more and more people are finding plant-based lifestyles a healthy and more humane option for the planet.

Here are things I am actually enjoying (and it feels good to actually feel a small amount of joy):

Having a  guitar in my hands

Lots of bands and artists (the list would be long and is constantly growing)

Remembering Mark (these memories also make me sad, too, but I’m glad to have so many vivid reminders of who he was)

Youth taking charge of the planet

Having co-workers who make me laugh and aren’t put off by my occasional sadness and cynicism

Guided by Voices (who I’m getting to see again, on Saturday night)

The Fryeburg Fair (heading there on Sunday)

My turntable hooked up in the saloon

This is a much younger GBV and Bob Pollard right around the time I first saw them. I hope they’ve aged well.

Roots and Community

I’ve been fascinated by the concept of community for a long time.

Communitarianism, sometimes called “community,” is a concept I’ve been captivated with and have read widely about for the past 25 years. I even got to play in the “laboratory” and forge elements of this concept in various places around the state of Maine. I think the germ for me was first planted by Wendell Berry’s writing on the subject.

When I was directly engaged in community-building and nonprofit work during the first decade of this century, Berry’s foundational values: place (it matters), community, good work, and simple pleasures resonated with the side of me that tended towards seeing what was ideal, if not always practical. The best part of the time I spent engaged in what I found to be “good work” however, was that it taught me that people working together could produce positive results that benefited many and rippled outward long after I was no longer around doing that work.

My son embodied these values. He saw the good in people. Mark also had the capacity and the drive to move beyond mere words and playing around the fringes of social justice. He actually took action.

Friday, as youth around the world came together in a global chain of voices and actions around protesting climate change, I was reminded of the ultimate sacrifice that Mark made for what he believed in. His death profoundly altered my life and the life of his mom in ways that we’ll never be able to step away from. Loss is forever.

This weekend, our new community—the place where we’ve opted to put down new roots—came together along the river that flows between Biddeford (where we live) and the neighboring city of Saco. The weather was perfect. Summer gifted us with one last weekend to treasure before slipping away until next June.

RiverJam Fest was a chance for people to gather downtown: “down by the river” as one of my favorite artists sang about in a song. It began on Friday night with Fringe Fest, which was a pot pouri of art, music, coupled with food and drink. There was some performance art, K-Pop, and it was nice for Mary and I to finally live in a place where we could walk out the door and access some of the happenings. Then, when we were tired of them, turn around and walk back home.

The last time we were within walking distance to a downtown was when Mark was a student at Yellow Bird Nursery School in Lisbon Falls. That was a long time ago.

Community as a concept and an intellectual exercise to be talked about and debated is always neat and clean. Community acted upon, however, can sometimes get messy. People all want different things. We also want many of the same things, too. And as others have written about like Berry and the eminent sociologist Amitai Etzioni, community ultimately originates and emanates from the people—from the ground up, really—not in individuals ruggedly acting alone.

I must confess. I’ve struggled with the ideal and simply holding the spirit of community in my heart for much of the past two-and-a-half-years. People that used to love to talk about community with me apparently haven’t recognized that living in community means supporting others who are going through difficult times. Losing an adult son surely qualifies as difficult.

Living in a neighborhood is new for us. It means that houses are closer together. Sometimes you hear and see things you don’t like, or wish you weren’t so close to. It also forces you to look up and occasionally wave to another human being, or god forbid: have a conversation.

There are days when I come home from work, or from an errand and I’ll look across the street and see my neighbor taking care of their property. Their love of their little corner of Earth benefits me. At times, they’ve motivated Mary and I to take extra care of our lawn or garden out front. They also wave back, too.

When we were downtown on Friday night, our new neighbors texted and invited us to stop for a drink when we got back home. We enjoyed seeing their house, meeting their dogs, and learning a little bit of history related to the street and area of Biddeford we’re living in. We even learned about “the curse of the Saco River” the river we ended up cruising up and back on Saturday, the landmark around which Biddeford-Saco originated centuries ago.

Downtown Biddeford as Captain John takes us out onto the Saco River.

Sometimes it’s been hard for me to consider gathering with others over the past 2+ years. Community demands that we not give in to our misanthropic inclinations after the floor of one’s life opens up and drops them into the pit of sadness caused by grief and loss.

Mary and I have been talking about inviting people over to show off the new crib. RiverJam weekend seemed like it might be the best opportunity. Of course, being as busy as we’ve been in moving and work and life doesn’t always lend itself to cleaning the house and fixing up food for a gathering of older friends, family, and some new friends, like our neighbors. But sometimes you have to be a friend to have a friend, or something like that.

Friends, family and neighbors on the patio.

Mark became a friend to many people in Providence, the city he adopted as home and the place that also adopted him. I also recognized in reflecting back upon his life that in 2014, he went through a period of sadness and I think, isolation.

At Mark’s celebration of life, we marveled at all the people who talked about how Mark was the “best listener,” or a “friend who was really interested in my life.” What I’ve come to believe based upon conversations I had with him and some of these remembrances about Mark is that in 2014, he made a decision to “be a friend” so that he’d forge connections with other humans. In hindsight, it seems like that was rooted in wisdom beyond his years.

Reaching out to others is hard. They can say “no” or reject you. After years of connection, they can disappear, or even break your heart. That’s the risk you must take, though.

I’m sure next week some shithead will piss me off or something will happen and again I’ll say to myself or come home and tell Mark that “I hate human beings.” Sometimes humans do suck.

But as Mark found out on his final walk across the country, many good people stopped because they saw a barefoot man walking down the road and thought he might need some help (or a pair of shoes). Sometimes I think about a well-intentioned person offering a plant-based vegan super hero a ham sandwich and I smile. Mark would always thank them politely. He appreciated the thought and heartfelt gesture that was being extended by his fellow human beings.

Saturday night was a good night. For more several hours I wasn’t sad. I smiled and laughed. People were glad to see us and our new house and where we lived. It was awesome to see old friends from years past. It was also special creating some history with a new group of people.

Another artist I was fond of and who often brought me joy through their music, Daniel Johnston, passed away last week. He had a song called “True Love Will Find You in the End.” I’m not sure this was ever true for Johnston. I know it’s rare for many people to find true love. But I think Johnston and Mark, and others who truly hoped that our better angels might win out in the end believed that. I’m going to work harder at holding that in my own heart, even if it means I must hold onto two opposing ideas, simultaneously.

Maybe that’s part of what embracing community is all about.

Walking Down the Road (song)

I wrote this song a few weeks ago. The first verse came to me just before leaving for work. I came home and wrote the rest of it that afternoon. It’s about Mark and the epic journey he attempted, crossing America.

http://jimbaumerexperience.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/09/Walking-DTR-acoustic-send01.wav

I recorded it using Audacity, an open source platform that approximates what I remember four-track recording used to be like using a Tascam Porta 02 I once owned back in the mid-1990s. This was what was referred to as a portastudio and was similar to the kind of recording equipment lo-fi bands like Guided by Voices were using at the time.

The recording isn’t perfect, but it’s a start. Next, I’ll probably hit some open mics this fall. I’ll also continue to write and record additional songs. I opened an account on SoundCloud, also.

Here are the lyrics:

Walking Down the Road

Verse 1

Walking down the road alone, I saw a country lost at home

A mission of hope carried me forth, I lived each day for all it was worth

A president came while I was away, I planned to counter him every day

Hate and division won’t carry us forth, come together and be a force

Chorus:

I wish I had just one more day, I know I had so much more to say.

I love my dad, I love my mom. I’ll miss my friends forever yon

Verse 2

My family back home sent me their love, I wished I got back to give them a hug

We all know what we think we know, but can we strive for a greater hope

Friends I lost along the way, but still I walked another day

Saving earth was what it’s about, some of the haters would jump and shout

Chorus:

I wish I had just one more day, I know I had so much more to say.

I love my dad, I love my mom. I’ll miss my friends forever yon

Verse 3

One hundred days of joy and pain, my feet moved ‘cross the fruited plain

A dirty hippy or something more, why can’t they see my higher road

My face and words live on today, I often wonder what people say

I gave it all held nothing back, but in the end was it done in vain

Chorus:

I wish I had just one more day, I know I had so much more to say.

I love my dad, I love my mom. I’ll miss my friends forever yon

[Instrumental break]

Verse 4

Walking down the road alone, I saw a country lost at home

A mission of hope carried me forth, I lived each day for all it was worth

My family back home sent me their love, I wish I got back to give them a hug

We all know what we know, but can we strive for a greater scope

Chorus:

If I had just one more day, I often wonder what I’d say

It hurts my dad, it hurts my mom. Please remember them from where you roam

I wish I had just one more day, I know I had so much more to say.

I love my dad, I love my mom. I’ll miss my friends forever yon

[Fade]

Another Late Start

Back before Al Gore (or whoever) invented the interwebs, retailers like Sears and Montgomery Ward produced thick, colorful catalogs laden with merchandise. The introduction of the latest catalog into a household was a big deal. Sometimes siblings might even fight over who got the first pass at such a rich treasure trove of goodies.

Sears was the shizzle when Amazon was only associated with rain forests and tribes of warrior women. Their catalog, dubbed by some as the “wish book,” was for all intents and purposes an encyclopedia of the American dream.

The traditional department stores (Marshall Field’s, Wanamaker’s) sold higher-end fashion, but Sears had made its reputation selling less expensive but necessary items: socks, underwear, towels and bedding, which helped keep sales going even during the Depression. Sears also sold house kits. Yes, you could actually buy a house from the catalog and from 1908 to 1940, Sears sold between 70,000 to 75,000 homes.

In 1968, the Sears & Robuck catalog boasted 225 pages of toys and 380 pages of gifts for adults, for a grand total of 605 pages. Included in those 600+ pages were musical instruments: specifically, guitars and drum sets.

Probably around this time, or perhaps a year or two later, I became fixated with looking at and wishing I could have a drum kit. I’m sure I mentioned this to my parents and I can only imagine a response that went something like, “you are not getting a drum set—I’m not going to have you banging on drums at all hours of the day.” Or something akin to that type of denial. I was raised on negative reinforcement.

If not a drum kit, then maybe my parents would let me have a guitar. Sears also sold guitars. This began in the 1950s and by the 60s, their house brand, Silvertone, was their biggest seller. These guitars were made for Sears by manufacturers like Danelectro, Harmony, and Kay. They were the first guitar of guitar greats like Chet Atkins and Jimi Hendrix. Some of these guitars would later become a “thing” with collectors and musicians who couldn’t afford high-end brands axes by Fender and Gibson.

Jack White playing a remake (Eastwood Guitars) of the original Montgomery Ward Airline guitar.

In addition to Sears, Montgomery Ward also sold guitars via their mail-order catalog. Jack White of the White Stripes would bring attention back to the Ward “Airline” guitar, which was made from molded fiberglass, called “res-o-glass.” This guitar was unofficially named the “J.B. Hutto” model, for the famed blues guitarist who played the Montgomery Ward guitar.

Sears sold guitars.

No matter how much I pleaded, or how many times I left the catalog open to the page with guitars, Santa never brought me a guitar for Christmas. Would I have become a guitar player extraordinaire in my teens instead of a baseball phenom in high school? Who knows—it’s unlikely.

I’ve blogged about my journey becoming a writer. I seem to have a thing for picking up things later in life than most people do. I got serious about writing in my late 30s. I’ve mentioned Maine’s Stephen King and his book on writing as a catalyst in moving me beyond dabbling in writing to working a honing my craft.

Playing the guitar and mastering the instrument requires a similar commitment to the one I made with writing. I’ve learned that picking up the guitar for a mere 15 to 20 minutes a day delivers a return on that investment of time. Because I’ve tried to play every day for the past 10 months, I’m finally mastering the basic chords. I’m now stringing them together progressions. I’ve even begun knocking out some classic riffs, too.

Yesterday, Mrs. B and I made it over to the beach. We got to see a band we first saw Labor Day weekend in 2016. We had so much fun listening to that that we planned to make them a regular part of our summer routine. The trouble is that life rarely if ever follows a script delivering a trouble-free existence. Mark disappeared from our lives forever. We never made it back to see the band we enjoyed back in 2016.

I got to speak with Eric, the guitar player in Leaving Eden. He was headed out for a cigarette break between sets. I stood up and chatted him up about his playing and the band’s amazing ability to bring the fun to the pier at OOB. Somehow, I ended up sharing a bit about our past two years and losing Mark. He responded in an empathetic way to both of us that made me realize that in addition to being a skilled guitar player, he’s also a decent human being. That’s no small thing in my book.

Oh, and he also encouraged me to keep playing. That’s what I plan to do.