Postcards from the Hanging
Sharing a Beautiful Poem by a Friend of Mine
Truer gifts
by Lisa Leafstrand
from A Widening Light, Regent College Publishing, 1984
The whole world (it seems)
is soaring into Christmas
meeting the cold with such proper spirit
hanging up pines with bulbs and best wishes,
meaningless to minds set in tradition
and premature weariness for celebrating routine.
(I never understood it either):
Being fond of dolls then
I got a new one every year
packaged in paper and parent-love.
I ripped away wrappings
and months of anticipation
to touch my own just born babies,
more real than any mangered child
mysteriously coming in the very olden days.
They cried faucet water tears
(not salty but still strong)
I laughed at their damp faces
sometimes.
No one ever told me that santa made money
by stuffing himself in a red rented suit
or that the cookies I left hot for him
were munched by the dog
as I buried my head in a pillow
white with dreams.
It always ended too soon:
hopes flickered away as colored lights blinked
into black
brittle needles left trails behind the retreating tree
and the nativity surrendered the TV top to magazines.
Songs fled the streets and people forgot to smile
snow melted
and dolls lay broken on a closet shelf.
I shall make no neat list this year
(carefully itemized from Sears' catalog);
needing nothing in the way of plastic infants
I ask for truer gifts:
that I might glow sharper than any tinselled star
showing God's good love to every innkeeper
and all astonished shepherds.
Pancho Needs Your Prayers It's True
Written Saturday, September 9, 2011
I’m thinking about Townes Van Zandt tonight. Someone on Facebook sent me a video of him singing Tecumseh Valley with Nanci Griffith. I watched the video and tears came to my eyes as my heart and mind were flooded with images and memories.
When my son was very young, I introduced him to Pancho and Lefty, a song popularized by a duet of Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard. Unbeknownst to most, it had been written several years earlier by Townes Van Zandt, an underappreciated singer/songwriter who never made it big with the public but was revered by other artists and folk/country cognozenti. My son loved the Willie/Merle recording like I did; for a while he had even insisted I call him Lefty. I don’t know if he remembers those times but I know he must remember Townes, because Townes is hard to forget.
In the late 80’s, my son was six or seven and he then (and for many years thereafter) got a kick out of going with me to various Chicago restaurants I frequented. His favorites were the steakhouses where I was known by name to various servers and hosts. He felt like we were big shots, not knowing my status was such primarily because I was a generous tipper, secondarily due to my having represented several of the regular patrons of these establishments, and not because I was anyone special. On a particular early evening, I took him to O’Brien’s, a favorite steak joint of local politicians, lawyers, and entertainers. It was located on Wells Street in Old Town in the midst of the then-dying Chicago folk music scene. We were seated at a small table when two scruffy looking middle aged guys walked by. One was Fred Holstein, a local folkie and club owner who I knew very casually and minimally as I had defended a friend of his on a marijuana case a couple years earlier. Fred noticed me, stopped and said hello. He introduced his companion as Townes Van Zandt, and me as a local criminal lawyer. After shaking hands with Townes and telling him how much I admired his music, I turned to my son and told him that Townes had written Pancho and Lefty. My little boy responded “No. Willie Nelson.” Townes, who was flamboyantly already drunk or high, laughed and then feigned anger at the affront. Townes said, “Willie stole that song from me, kid. I am Pancho.” My son immediately replied, “I’m Lefty.” We all laughed and Townes told my boy that he had a little boy at home about the same age and that he missed him. As the two folkies moved on, Townes asked me for my business card, saying you never know, he might need me some day.
As my son and I eventually got up to leave, Fred approached me again and suggested we stop at his club not far away on Lincoln Avenue. He said Townes was going to do a little set and he was going to do Pancho and Lefty for my son. Tired as my little boy was, he wanted to hear “Pancho” sing. When we arrived at the dark and dank and nearly empty “Holstein’s” (very soon to close its doors forever), we sat at a side table so as to make my youngster as inconspicuous as possible. Soon, Townes appeared and accompanied only by his acoustic guitar, sang to a few sad-looking people at the bar, me, and my young son. He did If I needed You, then Tecumseh Valley , and introduced the next song as “for little Lefty there who thinks Willie and Merle’s version is better.” With a glint in his half-closed eyes, and in his kinda gruff alcohol-ravaged voice, he continued, “It probably is, but I wrote it!” He sang Pancho and Lefty. After a smattering of applause, he ambled over to the bar, My son and I waved our thanks and goodbyes to him and I took my half-asleep boy home to his bed and his pillow which I’m sure was filled with dreams of cowboys and outlaws.
Townes Van Zandt called me the very next day. Said he had a legal matter to discuss with me. I met him that afternoon at a bar on Clark Street near my office. We discussed some problems he was having with his manager and also some questions he had about the legal status of his latest marriage. I told him these matters were outside my expertise, gave him some curbside advice, and suggested he contact a lawyer back home in Tennessee. We then spent a couple hours talking about Dylan (who he seemed to admire but for whom he also expressed some envy), women, and his own labyrinth of addiction. He thought that root music, genius, madness and drugs were inextricably associated. He seemed sad and compromised, fundamental in his outlook, but very bright and somehow still hopeful. And he was funny with a sharp offhand wit. In that period of fewer than 24 hours, for his vulnerable humanity and his singular genius, he had become a hero for me.
I never saw or talked to Townes Van Zandt again. Of course, I listened to his music constantly and intently for a while thereafter. After he died young (supposedly of a heart attack, but certainly drug/alcohol related) in the late 90’s, I began to listen to his music again. I thought that, fittingly, like him, it was sad and compromised, fundamental, but still somehow hopeful. Also like him, it is a sheer revelation. If you get a chance, take a listen and, while you’re at it, say a prayer for Pancho.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YtzgwNDZAs4&feature=share
Carl
Written July 31, 2011
I just read a note on FB about Carl Schneider who we grew up with. The writer recalled that Carl used to eat Camel cigarettes (and other gross dross).
I remember Carl as a great guy, if a little (?) goofy. One time a group of us were eating at La Rosa's. Someone had dropped a piece of pizza on the floor next to our table. While we sat there, several people walked by, each stepping on and further crushing this yellow/red morsel until it turned rather black. Carl walked in to join us and nonchalantly picked up the now-grotesque piece, popped it in his mouth, ate it, and let out a satisfied sigh. Another time, at Sullivan (High School), I had somehow pissed off one of the greasers, who let it be known that he and I were going to fight outside the Jew's entrance after school. I was dreading getting my ass kicked and contemplating how long my recovery was going to take. At the appointed hour, the greaser and I were walking toward each other when Carl moved toward my antagonist in a friendly like way and said "Hey, wait. I gotta tell you something first." The greaser stopped and Carl proceeded to beat him to a bloody pulp. I was relieved and thankful, and only wondered why Carl hadn't eaten him.
Remembering a Friend - an edited excerpt from a usually private eMail
Written on Saturday, June 25, 2011 at 9:49am
Gents: When our friend, Sammy W. was in town last week for the annual get- together of our email group of old high school buddies, I told him affectionately that he was one of the two people in my life that could always effortlessly make me laugh -- with some kind of bullshit story, a crass putdown, a scatological non sequitur, or even a mere raised eyebrow. I found myself repeating this to our guys who got together during this GT week. Invariably, after relating this, people would ask me who the other person was who so consistently and easily cracked me up. I would tell them it was an old college friend of mine, Geoff Liss.
In our youth, Geoff’s humor had been easy and constant, sarcastic and witty. He was a big, good-looking, athletically built guy-- pretty good with the girls. One of the funny things about him was the incongruity of the nature of his humor – Lenny Bruce-ish, very hip and often laced with Yiddishisms -- coming from this big all-American-looking guy. (So many people had told him he was funny that in his 30's he tried an open-mike night at a comedy club. We all went to watch and support him and he was excruciatingly bad, which in itself was hysterical). Mentioning Geoff Liss so often and so unexpectedly in the past week made me think about him and how close he and I had been when we were young -- I could tell a million stories about our misadventures! Yet, I hadn't previously thought about him much in years. My ex-wife and I had been close with Geoff and his wife since college, and when they divorced years later, we basically sided with his wife (always a mistake to take sides). So, Geoff and I saw each other only for lunch a couple of times in the last 30 years and ran into each other at his ex-wife's funeral several years ago. At those infrequent meetings, the years melted away, the stories were non-stop, and the laughter raucous. You guys know how that goes.
As a tragic irony, this past Thursday, I got a call from Geoff's ex-brother-in-law. He told me Geoff had died on Tuesday after a brief illness. He was our age, 64. I went to the Shiva yesterday and was pleased I had gone, as his children seemed genuinely happy to see me after all the years, and I think the memories were a bit affirming of their dad for them.
Geoff's death affected me more than I would have anticipated. The natural death of a contemporary, certainly at our age, reminds one of one's own mortality, but more so, and more constructively, reminds one to reach out to the people you think about but don't touch enough. (According to his kids, Geoff had sudden severe stomach pains a week ago Thursday and his girlfriend made him go to the doctor that day. After some tests, the doctor told him he had diabetes. They did further tests and told him his body was riddled with cancer. They told him he had 6 months to live. He lasted 4 days).
I sure wish I could have had one last lunch with him and have had the chance to tell him how sweet the memories are. While I am pretty late to this "Bru-crew" of ours, I appreciate that we keep in touch and keep the friendships going, notwithstanding the diversity in the directions all of our lives and viewpoints have taken.
Tonight I am having a drink and will toast the memory of my old friend, Geoff Liss. One quick story: at SIU in 1966, the student government was dominated by a group of right wing Young Republicans. I was active in some lefty anti-war student groups. We decided that we would try to take over the student government, so I ran for the student senate. Geoff was my campaign manager. A guy named Lee, who always seemed to have a lot of money (curiously, tons of singles and fives), financed the campaign. Geoff decided to make my nickname, "Tweets," by which I was exclusively known in college, part of our strategy. He and Lee managed to buy a couple thousand little tin whistles. They had printed (no copiers back then) flyers that would have the whistles attached. The plan was to instruct a couple thousand students to all blow the quite shrill whistles simultaneously at midnight the night before the election. Geoff brought me the printed flyers and, without anyone's prior knowledge or approval, he had had the large headline on it printed as "Blow for Tweets." Geoff explained his thinking. He said that even if I lost, it would be funny (always important), and maybe some of the girls would even take the suggestion. We all laughed our asses off, but had the flyers changed to "Tweet for Tweets."
I still have a couple of those faded old flyers, and a few of those rusted old whistles, but am sadly reminded that nothing, and no one, lasts forever.
Tweets
Remembering Suze and Other Things
Written Saturday, August 27, 2011
An old friend, whom I had not thought about for years, called me today out of nowhere. He started, “I don’t know if you remember me, but….” Somehow, I recognized his voice instantly, and said so. “I remember you, Arnie. I‘ve been remembering a lot of things lately. Must be that Facebook thing.” I asked what he’d been doing all these years. He said he’d been “doin a lot of hard travelin.” “Dylanesque,” I thought. I said I’d been listening to Dylan a lot lately (as I knew he had been a Dylan psycho with me back when I loved to see my breath on a cold Chicago day, when I imagined myself walking hunched in the chill with my hands in my pockets and someone like Suze Rotolo at my side). He said, “Hey. Did you hear Suze Rotolo died?” Yeah, I knew it and it had made me sad even though I’d never met her. “Yeah. Too bad.” Suze had been kind of heartbreakingly beautiful in an unconventional way, was a free spirit, and was a true muse to Dylan's genius. (I’d always wanted my own muse. I settled for an audience of 12 strangers). My old friend said he figured I was successful, that he saw me on TV jousting with the press about some murder case. He said he thought it was me but that it didn’t look like me; looked like an old man he chuckled. He said when he thought about me he pictured a young guy with an afro, a cigarette dangling from my lips, and pretty young girls hanging around. I told him “successful” is a subjective concept, I'm alone, the afro and the girls are long gone, and, yes, that was me on TV in the ebbing throes of my career (defending the unjustly accused or at least the accused). There was a bit of an awkward silence and I asked him why he had thought to call. Hesitantly, he said he’d been having “hard times in New York” (Dylan again), and he wondered if I could spot him a little money. He’d pay me back as soon as he got on his feet. He said he knew something was gonna break for him soon. I asked if he was drinking and then I hated myself for asking. He said, “Well, yeah, a guy’s gotta stay warm.” (Sadly, I thought, it’s summer). I told him I would send him a couple hundred dollars. I said not to be concerned about paying me back, but that I wanted him to use a few bucks to buy a modest bouquet of flowers and leave them on Fourth Street in memory of youth, dreams, young girls, and Suze Rotolo.
The Lake with the Capital L
Sweet Home Rogers Park
A Lake that looked
Like an ocean,.
Wind that bit.
And, oh, the trees,
Older than time.
Brown buildings
Weathered by the years
And the humanity.
The sounds and smells from the rear porches.
The secrets behind summer’s open windows.
We learned baseball
In the alleys
So always hit to center field.
No left or right, just
Concrete, brick, and passageways.
Sheridan Road
Between Devon and Howard
Felt like a Boulevard of dreams.
Dreams of the future.
Only some broken.
Pratt Boulevard, though, was
Just a street with the
Empty chairs in front of the Pratt Lane
Suggesting ghosts.
Ma and Pa drugstores with
Soda fountains and
Old wooden phone booths.
Diners, and hardware stores and
Grocers that delivered.
Produced gangsters and lawyers and
Doctors and dreamers and writers and
Teachers and ne’er do wells with a
Common history.
Pinners and squirrels on the stoops,
Football and tanks at Loyola Park.
Those yellow civil defense centers and
Draft Boards.
Morse Avenue with
Beaches and buck-buck,
Corn Beef and kishke, and
Fish Fries on Fridays.
Jews and gentiles, and
Cuban émigrés, with a
Smattering of black and brown.
We all walked to school with
The same galoshes and leggings and
Books sometimes read.
Still there, the Lake with a capital L,
The trees and the bitter wind, the ghosts.
But now we are beckoned to dream of the past
Where we think everything was good.
Dream on.
Have You Ever Seen God?
Have you ever seen God
In your child's first smile?
In your lover's soft breathing?
In the eyes of your dying parent?
Have you ever seen God
When your friend for no particular reason says I love you?
When your dog lies contentedly in your lap?
When you hear the joyous sounds from a playground?
Have you ever seen God
In the colors and textures of Starry Night?
In the last seventeen minutes of Shawshank?
In the haunting sound of a penny whistle?
In the prose of Vidal?
In the poetry of Neruda?
In the voice of Jeanette MacDonald?
In the words and cadences of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King?
Have you ever seen God
In a double rainbow?
On a quiet beach at sundown?
In a forest bathed in sunbeams?
Out the window of Denny's at dawn during a peaceful snowstorm?
Have you ever seen God
In the smooth nape of a neck?
In the gentle curve of a back?
In the enveloping softness of lips?
In the sweet scent of your lover?
Have you ever seen God in the fond remembrance
Of easy laughter?
Of peaceful Sundays?
Of lost friends and lost loves?
Have you ever seen God
When your child comes home for the Holidays?
When you've lost hope and found it again?
When you've conquered a demon?
When you've saved a life?
When your life has been saved?
Have you ever seen God when you've come to believe you can love again?
Have you ever seen God?
I have.
It's been a dreary day. But it will get better as the hidden sun sets. It always does. I'm a night person. Always have been. Stay tuned for my night visions.
