The Harbor Inn.

Ken Stop, check it out, we need to have at least one in here. The Harbor Inn. A place so small we would have missed it if not for the drunken sailors by the door. Happy hour 9 till 11 AM, no food but Angel will order it in for you. We weren’t having food but we were in luck, Angel was working the Bar. Ice cold beer, no bottles just cans. Ordering a round we find it the cheapest place yet, this is stop number six or seven, I think. Angel was funny and friendly in a “don’t fuck with me way” The sign behind her said a lot, “I’m not fluent in Idiot, so please speak slowly”. She tells us among other things that this is the oldest bar in Ocean City! Ken talking it up with a couple regulars gets one to take our photo with Angel. It took some doing as “Danny” was trying to get us and bar signs all in the shot. I’m “talking” actually listening to Mrs. Bee tell about the time it flooded in here and her cat drowned. The cat would have been lucky to live as long as the story of his demise. One beer turned into more, then we head off, lots more bars to see. The drunks are still hanging out on the porch, can’t stay inside if you can’t afford a beer. We find ourselves at the Inlet Bar and Grille a short few blocks later. Laughing and talking with an older woman and the Jennifer behind the bar. The conversation screeches to a stop when they hear where we came from. You went into the “Bloody Bucket” people get killed there all the time! Turns out that is the local name for the place. They don’t believe us till we show them the photo of us and Angel. They have all heard stories but had never been inside. We had and survived unscathed. The worst injury for us this day will be self inflicted at a bar called the Mug and Mullet (or mallet) much later and involved Vodka, but that is another story.

Don't count

Quickly down the path through the pines you hear it, then smell it in the air. Up the dune and there it is. looking down, now moving a slower pace, there's one, nice, another not as good but it will do, back and forth, just right, too fat, oh yea, round and flat just like people the best ones have the sharp edges knocked off. Another over there but stuck in the dirt, kick it loose nah it was only part of a larger one. Hands full begin filling pockets this is a good start I'll be back. Head to the waters edge one in each hand seeing them by touch turning over and around like meditation balls. Watch the waves, good size swells breaking close but leaving a fleeting smooth trough as they run from the shore. Weighing the best one, always the best one first, holding it just so, leaning a little to the side, reach back, wait for the perfect wave. Now arm coming forward body and shoulder turning hand flicking it loose. Hitting the water at just the right angle it skips and skips curving an arc, slides and then settles out of sight. Wow! twelve says David from behind me. Twelve? Oh you were counting. I forgot you were there. What's your best? I'm not sure, a bunch, I don't count. It is more about the process and the feeling. The really good ones come to a stop before they sink. Like life it is mostly about your approach angle. Too steep and fast and you make a big splash and then your gone in an instant. Too high you get your nose up in the air, go way up then drop out of sight with a small splash. hit the angle just so and you can skip along more times than can be counted.

86 The Cowboy

Way Past Sunset, Sitting in the dark with the sound turned down listening to him breathe looking up at every pause, watching the endless procession of old western movies channel 86 is running this month, wondering how did they know, do they know the cowboy dieing in this room grew up, never grew up, watching them all. He never said so but john Wayne was probably one of his heroes. The Duke could only wish he was as tough as this little big man, withered now next to nothing, still too strong to die and too far gone to live. Struggling more with the medicine than the pain it was supposed to relieve. He always liked the action and had no time for the sappy romance, "back to the war" he would say. Wars were more his style, he went off to and came back from three. Now he is in a battle he won't win and for some unknown reason doesn't even get a chance to fight. The fighting is being done by others, for against and around him. Here in the dark lit by the flickering screen are some of the hardest and at the same time most satisfying hours. The job at this time of night is clear and direct, keep him comfortable and don't let him fall out of bed. No need to worry about the troublemakers, they stay clear during these late long nights. Watching these old movies it occurs to me that most of the actors good guys and bad are probably already dead. He should be, but he's not, he shouldn't have, but he has outlived them all. As another flick ends and they ride off into the sunset I know he will not be far behind and something also tells me it will be way past sunset when he goes

Community Night at The Theatre

as reported by Joy Lorien I treated myself to the Gala Opening of RAAC's Community Theatre. It truly was a night of inspiration, laughter, tears and some great personal stories that stay with you and impress you with the truth that indeed there is no ordinary person. Except here in this little hamlet that nestles alongside the eastern side of the Blue Ridge mountains one truly finds extraordinary people who have merged with the ordinary and the lay of the land and found something very unique. They seed each other in the stories and relationships that emerge and it is the rhythm of oral history at its best. The Gala open with the new President, Kevin Adams, introducing RAAC's Gala Opening as a sort of rebirth, a continued continuation of what began over 25 years ago. It reminded me of the old French word 'reclaimer' which means 'to call back the hawk which has been let fly'. It was a time also to remembering those like Claudia Mitchell and others in whose legacy will provide grants and opportunities for emerging artists and to promote the arts throughout the community. A song of Linda Orfila, opened up the night with the sweet homespun lyrics of "You're Home' which best embodied the simplicity of rural life when she sang of gardening and cooking and the simple life with the chorus of "I have my talents what about you"?. The "Tales of The Forge" by Nol Putman, the blacksmith, who was a northerner of Massachusetts come south and settled here alongside these beautiful Blue Ridge mountains. The delightful story where come here's meets been here's brings out this unique intermingling when Nol had a little run in with his new neighbor over property rights and the heart throb thankfulness of the farmer when Nol, as a gift to his neighbor, repaired a fence post digger. Blacksmith extraordinaire! Lorraine Duisit joined with her former musician of Trapezoid, Paul Reisler as she played on a wonderful instrument which looked like a small dulcimer. The songs of "Make Your Heart A Garden" and "Green Valley" sang us right into the season we all love, Spring, and it seem like I could feel the stirring and moving of life and love in my own heart. The Gala took a little bit of a twist and turn with two none so ordinary people Donald Chandler and Bill Dietzel. It was done as a skit where Bill was a talk show host interviewing Donald who introduced himself a a come here from North Carolina and has become as we all know one of the coolest architects you want to meet. Bill brought out a picture of Donald as a very young man playing the guitar with "Dagmar" the foxy blonde with voluptuous curves who was a hit in the 1950's on a show Broadway's Open House which was a forerunner to The Tonight Show. Donald kept us laughing like only he can and took up his guitar to sing a song by Jimmie Rodgers called 'Waiting For a Train". When someone next to me ever so softly sang along with the tune, melody and the words all began swirling around me and the presence of it all was actually tingling. All around the water tank, waiting for a train A thousand miles away from home, sleeping in the rain I walked up to a brakeman just to give him a line of talk He said "If you got money, boy, I'll see that you don't walk I haven't got a nickel, not a penny can I show "Get off, get off, you railroad bum" and slammed the boxcar door He put me off in Texas, a state I dearly love The wide open spaces all around me, the moon and the stars up above Nobody seems to want me, or lend me a helping hand I'm on my way from Frisco, going back to Dixieland My pocket book is empty and my heart is full of pain I'm a thousand miles away from home just waiting for a train Linda Heimstra sang a haunting melody of love gained and lost with the flow of 'Nethers River' as a backdrop to the strains of a heart broken. I have been deeply in that place where one goes in the shadows of night to their lost loves home just to see the truth of the other woman and also remember the times as sung by Linda when we realize we will flow pass this and love again. It is here where the 'canto hondo', the 'deep song' reside. The instinctual core of the psyche is where the arts and poetry, song and stories all emerge from and their wildness touch others in that deep place to which it is in service to. Peter Hornbostel told such a great story he really did. Called, 'George Davis, or how I came to own the Peola Mills General Store', was a story of how Peter came to this area as a young lawyer and obtained the store in order to sell it to the person whose land he really was going to buy until he found out he did not own it. It was really funny and he kept us engaged and entertained to even introducing us to the town lawyer who helped thresh out most of the details of the sales and exchanges which Peter agreed was brilliant and very impressive. Will not tell you who this lawyer was for one must here the story one day. Paul Reisler took up his guitar and sang a song written with first graders called, "I Used To Know The Names Of All The Stars" His music with Kid Pan Alley is a bright star in the world today and has blessed just countless of people including so many children. The song, "Perfect In Every Way" written by Paul and Angela Kaset for his wife, Julie Portman, who died of cancer brought back the beauty of Julie's life and for me of Richard Lyke's life also. Paul had the audience sing along with him in dedication to Claudia Mitchell, Julie Portman and Richard Lykes. I saw all three of them holding hands behind Paul and Julie in Persian Blue and the tension and force of the close proximity of the two planes had my body shaking from silent sobs. This inner 'keening' came unexpected and was glad it was time for an intermission. Paul and Angela's song, 'Perfect In Every Way' i picture you in persian blue, in two thousand twenty two standing there me and you, laughing at today if you're not here to hear this song, if you go you won't be gone you will still be perfect every way Chorus: every story that you told, is like a rose that still unfolds in my mind i hear you laugh, and it cuts the hurt i feel in half and the love we have is magnified by the light you shine from the other side heaven knows what i would do, to dance with you in persian blue to tell you once more "i love you", but i know you would say no regrets for what's undone, no sorrow for what should have come no wishing for a different drum Chorus: it will still be perfect everyway and the light you shine is perfect and the light you shine lights my way and the light you shine is perfect in every way Chorus: I picture you in Persian blue The last event of the night was a play called, 'The Bear In Rappahannock" with apologies to Anton Chekhov who wrote the play. :-) It was played by Norm Getsinger who was absolutely phenomenal as a butler concerned about his widowed mistress. His expressions were priceless and I cannot believe his age. Surely he has discovered in these mountains the fountain of youth. Stephanie Mastri who played the widow was also just extraordinary and her tall elegant body language with her changing emotions of grief, haughtiness, passionate anger that just turned to passion took all of us on her journey. And my goodness, Howard Coon, well well well accolades indeed. Man did he kick up a storm to collect a debt from this widow only to be challenged to a duel by her and to unexpectedly fall head over heels in love. It was a sight to witness and how do these people remember all these lines and execute it with such artistry just amazes me. I believe Anton Chekhov needed no apologies. Bravo to the show! What seem like the simplicity of a country theatre held within its walls and under its roof extraordinary people with ordinary stories who are living ordinary lives making extraordinary stories. I loved it. Thanks RAAC and to all those who gave us their songs and tales of life here nestled in one of the prettiest places in the world.

Robert

How did it go? Pretty good, but I'm not done. It is going to take me a couple more days, she also wants the attic vent fixed. Good, that's more work for you and I know she will be a good resource. He was there again today. REALLY, that's the third time this week. Do you think she knows he's hanging around? I have no idea and I am not going to say anything, it would probably upset her. Does he bother you? Na, he just looks in and watches me work. I wonder why he keeps coming around. He always looked after the place and most likely he is worried about her being taken advantage of. Making sure she is getting her monies worth. It just spooks me, he has been dead for almost a year now.

A Tony Hoagland poem that I like

Memory As a Hearing Aid by Tony Hoagland Somewhere, someone is asking a question, and I stand squinting at the classroom with one hand cupped behind my ear, trying to figure out where that voice is coming from. I might be already an old man, attempting to recall the night his hearing got misplaced, front-row-center at a battle of the bands, where a lot of leather-clad, second-rate musicians, amped up to dinosaur proportions, test drove their equipment through our ears. Each time the drummer threw a tantrum, the guitarist whirled and sprayed us with machine-gun riffs, as if they wished that they could knock us quite literally dead. We called that fun in 1970, when we weren’t sure our lives were worth surviving. I’m here to tell you that they were, and many of us did, despite ourselves, though the road from there to here is paved with dead brain cells, parents shocked to silence, and squad cars painting the whole neighborhood the quaking tint and texture of red jelly. Friends, we should have postmarks on our foreheads to show where we have been; we should have pointed ears, or polka-dotted skin to show what we were thinking when we hot-rodded over God’s front lawn, and Death kept blinking. But here I stand, an average-looking man staring at a room where someone blond in braids with a beautiful belief in answers is still asking questions. Through the silence in my dead ear, I can almost hear the future whisper to the past: it says that this is not a test and everybody passes.

What's that? What's that on your shirt? It's berry juice, when we picked them I didn't know they stained. What's that? What's that wrapped on your arm? It's a bandage, I scraped it on a tree branch when I was jumping down. What's that? What's the red marks on your legs? It's bug bites from our night hike. What's that? What's the bruise on your shin? It's from tripping on the rocks at the mountain top. What's that? What's with the limp in your walk? It's from not wearing my water shoes in the stream. What's that? What's that stretched across your face? It's a smile we had the best time.