Are you climbing up or just hanging on?

I read this statement in a book about changing your life to adapt with business or corporate structure while watching a spider climb on a Christmas card basking in the sunlight.

The statement is very true of what individuals have in their being to want to strive for or be swept aside in the constant evolution. Some will set and seek goals of fortune or fame while others plod everyday to another’s demands.

Each might internally validate life’s accomplishments, yet other’s perceptions calculate unknown variations.

Pondering my father’s hopes, dreams, wishes, and reality I also reflect on my path.

No regrets behind me, yet the future, though it may be short, might hold a key.

A similar thought is the ambiance around us. Some hurry in a rush of noise and confusion, electronic devices clutter the air with news, weather, sports, and the constant chatter, while others relax in the quiet of their own being.

Music, I feel, is the glue that holds us together. Titles, language, politics, etc. cannot form a bond like music. Global recognition of rhythm brings smiles and tears and laughter and song to the human spirit.

So, life, like the corporate ladder, is a decision of climbing up or just hanging on. Music can create the soundtrack, but it is each of us to decide how far we climb.

And is there ever a top?

And death may be just letting go.

Snow Day

Today the sun is out, shining the crystal whiteness of the city.

After a day of eating, watching bad westerns, and being surround with the frozen water, I decided it was time to venture out.

There was no reason to lace up the boots and step out into the knee-deep powder. Stocks of food are plentiful, entertainment abundant, but the need for fresh air and sunshine compelled me to explore winter.

After feeding the yard critters, I strapped on my pack and trudged into the deep footsteps.

A few are out digging out their vehicles for the sliding necessary to open offices and stores with few calls or customers. Will we ever accept that this town is shut down until streets are passable for mom and pop to safely resume their daily chores?

The streets that are cleared are thick ice with a light white powder. I decide to take the safe yet slower path of stepping into the deep but firm footing on the edges.

A young woman guiding her little girl welcomes the beauty with me. A man, dressed for church, walks around the corner to the main road, to warm up his vehicle before loading his shivering offspring.

Sunshine convinces all it is warmer, but there are very few spots of melting. Yet the exercise, which would normally be a quick stroll, causes the body to perspire under the layers.

A two-mile hike takes two hours. I’m not in a hurry, actually noting the cold and the ice, took a very slow pace.

As I wander the streets, I wonder what the heck I am doing out here?

What would happen if I were to fall and break my hip?

Then my mind wondered to the thought of how long will I be able to do this? I’m not a young chicken now, but what will I do when it snows like this and I’m 80 years old? Would it would not be feasible or even possible for me stand knee deep in the cold, watch the yard bend to the weight, suck in the clear air, and listen to the wisp as fowl and flora as they struggle, the same as I, to get to Spring?

Before I slept last night under piles of blankets and comforters, warming my toes, cap on my head and my comfort knit around my neck, I thought of years gone by.

How did the pioneers survive in this weather? Sure, they burned wood (and I got plenty of wood) or climbed under piles of blankets (just like I did), and they did not have electric light or television or microwave popcorn or computer social networking while the snow falls, and yet they did survive. Maybe that is why the population grew so much, but even that body heat will subside.

Thinking back further, I imagine a medieval time of cold. Tapestry covered walls, huge fireplaces, long thick layers, and coal heated beds kept the upper tier tolerable to the weather, but what about the ones in the straw beds in drafty humble abodes?

I’ll survive this winter with a little more wisdom, appreciating the now and anticipating the future. Next winter will be just as cold, but I have learned from these experiences.

This is how we grow.

The Night Is Cold

I just came back from a walk through Colonial Place.

There is no white powder yet, but I feel the coming.

The silence is only broken by the whir of a motor vehicle zooming down the payment racing home before the storm.

Clouds mask the stars in grayness of winter.

The breath is clear and clean, yet the season of winter holds it’s internal capture of breathing and the body knows the difference.

Morning will bring a white blanket so it is time to sleep and await the crystal water.

I know the moon is up there shining bright to others.

Good night.

Fighting in Bed & Holes in my Pants

Maybe there are dreams or simple unrest, but I find myself every morning rearranging the stack of blankets that have been turned and strewn around the room. It looks like a battlefield.

I feel I have slept well, but the covers show there was a trauma in the darkness.

Riding a bike every day is a progressive pattern of movement that put pressure of legs churning up and down against the narrow leather seat.

Every mile rubs on the material of the rider’s pants until the wear is apparent.

The continued chaff creates small holes and with daily wear, the seat tears.

Today I realize, this pair of jeans I have been wearing for the past month must go to the trash, but the battle in the bedroom will continue.

Trains

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Late at night when I wake up, I hear the rumble of trains.

Far away sounds, yet very familiar.

To the south, the crash of empty railway cars rolling west to prepare to fill themselves with the tops of Coal Mountains fill the night air.

To the north, a whistle announces the arrival of consumer goods.

The railways were here long before I arrived. I learned its history was leaned in television programs and folk songs.

I worked at a train station for a while, with access to free travel on the rocking cars.

But until you ride the rails and fill the rhythm, you cannot appreciate the magnitude of the metal ribbon, which connected our country.

And to me is a wonderful method to travel. Enjoy the ride.

Spring Can’t Be Far Away

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Drag myself out of bed with the sound of the birdcall.

Without leggings and loose socks wipe my eyes to see the sunshine knowing full well I would travel today.

The rain has stopped.

The ground squishes as I put out sunflower seed for the critters, then float the flack for the orange bodies who have endured the cold.

A cup of coffee and a cup of fruit, pull up the zippers and the gloves.

Time to mail the $3,000.00 in bills for repairs that have just begun on my humble abode.

At the mall, I decide to continue my journey to my morning run, but in reverse.

The hills are a little more difficult and the traffic congestion adjusts my path, but the first stop for water brings the remembrance of clear breathing.

I cut the voyage short due to thoughts of the hot water maker being left on.

Another cup of coffee reading the mail, there is little motivation to jump into a project.

A quick trip to the grocery store for refreshments and creamer precedes another lapse into television boredom.

Shaking it off, I climb the 13 steps to load another 10 trash bags, delivering boxes and bags rolling down to the kitchen.

Dragging out the piles of mother’s curtains, scraps of flags, shirts, dresses, sweaters from years ago, the piles fill the space for the Monday retrieval by the cities huge trucks.

Tomorrow brings rain, football, and an attempt to play along with a geezer song selection.

Sleep well tonight for tomorrow you must dust off the cases and place fingers on metal wire strumming to a wooden box.

Specs

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I feel I have worn glasses forever.

They are as much a part of me as grabbing my wallet, pocketknife, keys, and handkerchief.

But looking back at photos I’m surprised how long it took my parents to realize I could not see.

I remember having problems in school because I couldn’t see the blackboard.

Reading was a struggle so homework suffered.

I didn’t play sports because I couldn’t see the ball until it hit me in the face.

From the dates on the photos it looks like I was 12 when I started to wear the plastic frames.

Most of the time I didn’t have much selection or choice for a fashion look, so the brown thick frames divided my face.

Later in life, I had to buy my own vision and went through many changes.

Big frames, metal frames, shaded lenses, bi-focal lenses, and dark glasses I could see through changed my look through the years.

Being an artist, my eyes and my hands have been instruments of my career.

Years of televisions small grainy black and white screens took its toil on my sight, and then the computer came along with a noticeable drop in viewing details.

I’m sure I can blame age on some of this, but I must wear my specs every day. They are the first thing to put on every morning and the last thing to take off at night.

Being a four-eyes is what I am.

or as the Lovin' Spoonful said:

For eyes, what you gonna do now
Fore eyes, and how much do you see now
How many fingers, ha ha ha
When your kids that see through plastic
with a harness of elastic
So the girls all think you´re icky
And the boys all think you´re queer
Then the hinges all get rusty
And the seventh pair gets busted
So you graduate to tortoise
Shell that makes you look severe
When you´re so blind they call you Batman
You can´t even see a fat man
You can´t dig just where he´s at man
Without windows on your eyes
But the frames ain´t your decision
And they´re fitted with precision
And they magnify your eyes like they´re a pair of cherry pies
Here´s a word to all you parents
Give a break to little Clarence
When he says the blackboard´s fadin´
And the world´s a fuzzy place
Mister up in middle classes
And please recall that after all he
wears them on his face

Old Maids

Been eating a lot of popcorn this winter.

Had to replace the burnt out air popper, then thought about what was left in the bottom of the bowl.

Those kernels not yet fully puffed to perfection, but almost there.

Not the virgin kernels bounced around but never responded.

Old maids are the ones who are half way cracked open like a nugget in a shell.

They never met their full potential.

The heat started to open them, but they never puffed into a light fluffy pop.

Crunchy and gritty on your teeth.

These are my favorites.

Five Police Cars and a Near Death Experience

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For several weeks now, I have broken my morning routine and not taken my 10k bike ride. Snow, cold, ice, wind, donation pickups were all excuses.

Meanwhile the bikes, like ponies in a corral, have sat idle waiting for a ride.

So this morning I swore to myself this morning was time to take my ride.

The weather had been warm, but I was still awaiting Jesus, who came yesterday afternoon.

Today there were no excuses. Even waking up late did not prevent me from saddling up and walking up the gravel to the grey sky. As I adjusted myself to the temperature and clearing my throat, the rain clouds that would be with me for several days began to appear on the horizon.

Marion glided down the hill and over the remands of sand and salt, then a turn to starboard. Catching my breath, I began to get into a rhythm long forgotten. After a turn back, noticing a Cowboys banner on front of a house and thinking, “You can take that down. That ain’t gonna happen this year.”

Up the hill I see Christmas lights still up and wonder if the residents know this is the 21st of January and it is a no-no in this old town to leave the past season decorations after the 20th? It was like the guy I saw in the white suit last weekend. Are there no rules?

Turning to opposite side of the medium to avoid a large moving truck, I first thought another family was leaving, but was pleasant surprised when on the side of the truck was written “Showroom Furniture”.

The pace was slower for the first third of the venture, but I appreciated being on two wheels going around a truck loading a portable storage unit, passing the mobile machines parked and waiting.

I noticed a lot of police cars on my travels. This trip passed five of Richmond’s finest parked throughout. Was there a crime wave-taking place in my neighborhood or had house prices dropped so public servants with free rides could buy in?

At the top of the hill, I paused and listened for traffic. The street was lined with huge vans and trucks for every house seemed to under some sort of construction (I can relate) or the usual SUVs the size of small elephants. I looked left, since that is the first lane to cross and noticed no movement. A quick look to the right and I was off.

Then a black mobile machine appeared from behind a block of mobile metal. My mind quickly woke and decisions were made. I pressed the pedal with determination and struggled to quicken the pace over the hill. Luckily the driver also saw me and slowed to let me pass.

Drifting down the other side of the hill I thought wouldn’t it be ironic to be run over on my first outing in over a month. I was out of practice.

Paying more attention to traffic patterns I reached the end of my first third unscathed.

Waiting for the light to change and the drivers to clear I noticed a hint of sunshine, but it was fleeting. My fingers were still numb from the cold as I pushed on.

Up another hill, avoiding metal monsters and construction workers, I passed a jogger who waved and said “Hey! Morning!!” with a smile. I wondered why a young girl (40’s?) was doing out this time of day.

Perhaps she was taking a break from working at home or a single mom getting some exercise was my only answers. It didn’t matter in a blink of an eye she was gone.

On the back of a mud covered jeeps spare wheel cover was a black and white skull and crossed swords. “Argggh!” Oh, to be a pirate again.

Stopping at Malvern to drink the very cold water and survey the territory. A gray mobile carrier pulled up behind me waiting as if I was taking up too much space to turn, so I continued.

Traffic was light from there on so my pace quickened to my usual speed. I took deep breaths as I approached the Wythe hill, but first I had to slide to a stop to wait for a driver to make a decision on which direction to take.

The hill wasn’t as bad as I thought, but I considered the pain I would feel tomorrow with a grin. An up-shift down the hill, I was looking forward to the roller-coaster.

At the church, I watered again then could feel my right leg press hard against the resistance, but made the pass of the street of monuments and into my last third passage.

The hills were familiar and the breathing on track. Marion was glad to be out and frisky on the cleared roadways.

Before I knew it, I was done.

The sky had grown grey with the impending weather and the air grew colder, but I was warm and energized.

Placing the Gray Ghost back on the porch with Bianchi and Big Blue, I paused for a cup of coffee and watch the fish swim in clear water.

Warm weather is not far off, I thought, so I can get back into a regular pattern. Four more book cases and boxes of scraps of old shirts, silky items, and memories to go through until I attack the jewelry and silver.

There will always be reconstruction, but it felt good to get some needed internal travel and mental exercise beyond weird dreams.

Gullibility

I saw this cartoon the other day and thought it so true.



Then I put other names at the top of the "Test", and they ALL seemed to fit.

"Government", "Religion", "Love"....

We pay our dues, follow the rules, give our lifetime

and the rewards are?


It's all about faith.

The Dogs of Summer

Last night I kept hearing dogs.

Not barking, but the word “dog” stood out in the lyrics.

In the crowd of hot bodies clapping to guys living out their childhood fantasy, I visualize dogs.

Dogs running down the grassy knolls chasing butterflies on a summer breeze.

The freedom we all enjoy watching and wish for.

I’ve got to do something with this word - dog.

I'M GOIN' BE A CHICKEN-FARMER DOWN IN HAITI (cml, 1979)

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Well, I m going' be a chicken farmer down in Haiti

Yes, I m going' be a chicken farmer down in Haiti

I'm going' have a chicken farm

Ain’t gonna cause no harm

I'm going' be a chicken farmer down in Haiti

I feed all the people real good down in Haiti

Yes, I feed all the people real good down in Haiti

In 'da city Port-au-Prince

Chicken-in-a-box for 40¢

I feed all 'da people real. good down in Haiti

I could raise a crop of weed down in Jamaica

Sell my crop, make big money, and forsake ya'

But, I'm going' start a chicken farm

Ain't gonna cause no harm

5 million people eat my chicken down in Haiti

Well de' hurricane blow me away down in Haiti

de' hurricane blow me away down in Haiti

Well de' hurricane done blow me away

But, I come back someday

I'm going' be a chicken farmer down in Haiti

I come back to the U,S,A, in da' winter'

I come back to the U.S,A, in da' winter'

But you know I have my pride

Come, stand by my side

We going' be chicken farmers down in Haiti

for those of us who where there know, and others can only wonder.

Intelligence

There must be an organizational layout of the U.S. Intelligence community
with over 100,000 associates
spending $49.8 BILLON dollars.

1. Central Intelligence Agency that is responsible for providing national security intelligence to senior U.S. policymakers.

2. Defense Intelligence Agency manages foreign military intelligence to support military planning, operations, and acquiring weapon systems.

3. Department of Energy provides technical analysis on nuclear weapons and worldwide energy issues.

4. Department of Homeland Security analysis multiple sources to identify threats to the United States.

5. Department of State analysis of global developments and other issues.

6. Department of Treasure manages information related to money.

7. Drug Enforcement Administration manages information obtained by drug enforcement.

8. Federal Bureau of Investigation defends the U.S. against terrorist while upholding the criminal laws of the U.S.

9. National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency collects and creates information about navigation, national security, military operations, and humanitarian-aid efforts.

10. National Reconnaissance Office designs, builds and operates the nation’s reconnaissance satellites.

11. National Security Agency / Central Security Service protects information systems and produces foreign intelligence.

12. Marine Corps maintains reconnaissance and surveillance, military/naval intelligence, human-source intelligence, counterintelligence, imagery intelligence, signals intelligence, and tactical exploitation of national capabilities.

13. Army responsible for policy formulation and oversight for intelligence for the Department of the Army.

14. Coast Guard guards U.S. economic and security interest in maritime region.

15. Air Force provides aerial reconnaissance and surveillance developing intelligence gathered from space platforms.

16. Navy supports missions including U.S. military acquisition and development, counter terrorism, counter proliferation, counter narcotics, and customs enforcement.


There seems to be some overlap, but only these 16 departments with all of their resources are gathering and sharing information keeping our nation safe from a bunch of bad bullies.

Don’t pull the covers over your head.

Outer Sync

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The cold and the sun have battled for spring flowers.

The water is cold and the nights are dark and quiet.

And the city gave me a “Notice of Violation” for the “container is too heavy”?

If I can drag it out this far, you can take the rest.

OK, I’ve been a little harsh on the guys who every Monday morning come by and relieve myself of piles of memories.

I’ll be better. This stuff is heavy.

I have not been riding the regular morning route due to the COLD and it has thrown my whole rhythm off.

Getting up every morning at the crack of dawn?

It’s cold outside…and inside!!

Coffee, morning weather, coffee, fruit, newspaper, and then it are noon news.

There is light upstairs, but it is not moving fast.

I had to threaten myself to move glass boxes.

But the cold makes the climb slower.

Sunshine is a different matter.

It flows through the southern windows covered in plastic still bringing the warmth.

The cold blinds the brain when there are the two-wheel ventures onto frozen water.

So the dream is for warm water and sunshine lives on.

Mamma’s House

She was always there every summer. The brick house in a small Carolina town on Chestnut Street was a solid landmark, a greeting location for the McIver family.

My family would travel all day down a two lane road crossing state lines to unpack our belongings for a week of awkward family relations.

My grandmother, always smiling and greeting, would cook and entertain the weary travels with laughter and good cheer. She ran the house like a well oil operation, but raising so many children probably gave her the experience of a 4-star general.

The white side porch swing was the male refuse as the women gathered in the kitchen. The living room with its plastic covered furniture was never used. The only sound from that room was the spinning brass clock chime. My uncle’s photo was in that room draped with his medal, but was never discussed.

I learned to play piano from the upright off the kitchen where the women would gather to sing in harmony.

The back yard was full of roses and the carport smelled of oil. The neighbors had chickens and dogs.

Upstairs were empty bedrooms, awaiting children who never came back home. Soft beds with no circulation that didn’t cool the summer’s beach sunburn were the retreat after a day at the beach.

Across the street was a stepsister to my mother, who seemed uncomfortable with our invasion of the small sleepy town.

It seemed every time our family came to town, others would come out of the woodwork. Flora, Peggy, Mac, Randy, Lamar…. the list goes on and on, and then there were the families with grandchildren all running amok.

The beach was a refuge from the crowded house, but every summer presented rain and visible stress from the elders.

Later in life, I was just dumped on the beach and made my way for weeks of exploration, temptation, and examination. All these were great life changing learning experiences.

The little brick house is still in the little sleepy town, but the McIver family will not return there.

It will always be Mamma’s house.

Smelly Feat

A few boys from the 1960s played together. The excuse was to make music, but it was comrades in arms that brought us the reward.

We were not good musicians. We had a mishmash of equipment, held together with wire and tape. We gathered in living rooms and dens, running extension chords blowing out fuses.

And like a football team, or a cadet company, or a fraternity, we bonded even for a short period of time.

We gave ourselves a name, like a gang, but instead of creating a menace, we had cards printed up in several colors to announce to the world we were “swinging teens”.

Why do young men get together on weekends to annoy the neighborhood with this loud noise? The main reason was to impress girls who are attracted to guys who acted or sounded similar to rock stars of the time.

Later in life, I realize there was much more than that. This crew mixed from different lifestyles, high schools, backgrounds, and abilities were the perfect mix for lads having fun together.

We did not judge, we did not argue, we only laughed and joined together in the celebration of music that defined them.

Joel went on to have two kids, teach and live happily in Bon Air. Paul moved to Carolina and passed away recently. Cliff retires and has a live recording of this group. Alex has moved on and has lost touch. Steve lives in Yorktown and is a skipper of a yacht.

“Thursday Night” may never play again, but for a brief space in time, these guys were so good together.

Let the music play on.

Those Darn Boys

A group of familiar faces gathered for a ceremony of lasting proportions and new lives introduced.

Music practiced over and over in a dark room with giggles and smiles, but determined to accomplish the goal of a solid music greeting to a new couple.

With puffy Williamsburg shirts and long hair, we sat in the grass of a college lawn and sang the tunes and peered at each other understanding this was the last concert.

A couple was gathered that day while another group was separated,

Keswick

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A time before I remember, I time I spent in the mountains of Virginia.

Leaving Richmond and the hotel life on a Grace Street row house, to the dusty road leading up to a giant granite and glass monument of human consumption of elegance.

But I was only a few years old and did not understand the surroundings, except for the smell of oil from the groundkeeper’s shed or the slick marble floors of the clubhouse.

A few years were spent in the mountains. My brother played baseball, catcher as I remember. I was a participant in a May Day celebration with a jester hat and a furlough look captured later in a tapestry for the Crimson King.

The swimming pool was always there. The green grass and the smell of open air were always there. The crowd of horses and dogs in a gathering with red jackets and black hats and much drinking became a foxhunt with little hunting and much more drinking.

My brother tells me there was strife in the family, but I don’t remember (or wish not to remember it) while we lived there.

I only have a few references of this time, then we move to Richmond.

Another life was about to begin.