Prayers & Hymns
Everybody is wondering what and where they all came from
Everybody is worrying 'bout
Where they're gonna go when the whole thing's done
But no one knows for certain and so it's all the same to me
I think I'll just let the mystery be
Some say once you're gone you're gone forever
And some say you're gonna come back
Some say you rest in the arms of the Savior if in sinful ways you lack
Some say that they're coming back in a garden
Bunch of carrots and little sweet peas
I think I'll just let the mystery be
Some say they're going to a place called glory
And I ain't saying it ain't a fact
But I've heard that I'm on the road to purgatory
And I don't like the sound of that
I believe in love and I live my life accordingly
But I choose to let the mystery be
—Iris Dement
Virtually every morning, I rise and spend an hour or so of quiet time in my darkened living room. It begins with two pieces of music: “The Prayer of St. Gregory” by Alan Hovhaness and “Hymn to a Blue Hour” by John Mackey. Over time, as I have listened more and more deeply, the melodies and harmonies have spoken to me—both the compositions themselves and their symbolic and mysterious messages. It has begun to fascinate and stimulate a part of me that I could not name. I had sat many mornings in silence and darkness, and I had chosen the music to allow my mind to remove or at least repress the intrusion of rational thought and distraction. It was serving its purpose well, and with time I began to explore ideas and inspirations that would not have appeared without that environment of peaceful contemplation.
One morning, I can say, with some trepidation, that I, figuratively, traveled from the present time and space back to the Big Bang of creation. I could see and feel the depth of the space through which I was traveling farther and farther from home. In the end, I did not actually witness the event but could sense that there was nothing else to see or visit. The “source,” the presence, was not evident. I am doing my best to speak of this lightly. I do not want to give anyone the sense that I am going off the deep end.
Now here is the ironic rub: I have not attended “church” in decades. Yet here I was, morning after morning, being inspired and sustained by two pieces of music which bore titles indicating that they were somehow related to prayer and hymn. It is quite possible that those words were being used in an easily understood and vernacular manner. Still, once recognized, it became impossible to ignore the possible implications. They have not yet become clear, or perhaps there are none to discover. But the question still remains. Did I choose them purely because I liked the music? Or did I subconsciously select them because of some kind of spiritual need (for want of a better word)?
I am aware that some who “meditate” are searching for meaning. The secular self yearns just as much as those who are part of a specific religious tradition. I grew up in a family of faithful parents from two traditions. I participated in their “rituals” as part of the family, but to my mind I never felt myself affiliated. I think I was always somewhat uncomfortable with especially the liturgy. Eventually, I could no longer say the words because the beliefs were not mine, and it felt dishonest to openly vocalize them. I also know and respect people who pray regularly. Some use words of praise and ask for intervention into some aspect of their lives. For others, it is just “listening.”
And so, back to the early morning voyage through the stars and the darkness of deep space toward the center of it all.
Were the voices of the cosmos suggesting that perhaps I was missing something?
If so, what was the message?
Since it all started in the dark before dawn, should I presume that the source of the vision was in the notes of those two songs?
I was vaguely aware of the medieval Pope St. Gregory but lacked any real knowledge of why he was a Catholic saint. (The prayer was attributed to him, but it is not clear that he actually wrote it.) I did a little work and learned that he had established the medieval papacy and developed the Gregorian chant. He was a prolific writer, a Doctor of the Church, and is considered a key figure in medieval spirituality, transforming his family’s wealth into monasteries and serving the poor during famine and plague. Now there was a reason to think a bit more about his prayer, if indeed it existed. The answer: oh yes, much to ponder.
So much for prayers—what about hymns? Well, there are certainly thousands of them in the Christian tradition. As the grandson of a Methodist pastor, I should note that John Wesley’s brother Charles is one of the best-known hymn writers. But are all hymns religious in nature? Online sources tend to agree that “the term ‘hymn’ is not exclusively limited to religious use. Hymns typically involve communal singing, theological messages, or praise aimed at a deity, spanning Christian, Jewish, Hindu, and ancient cultures. However, the concept extends to secular contexts as well.”
Well, there you go. Further reading reveals this: while historically and primarily praise songs for deities (God, gods, heroes), the concept extends to powerful, praise-filled songs about ideals or people, like “Imagine” or “Hallelujah,” but most commonly, a “hymn” refers to religious praise.
This leaves it open that I need not conclude that any message I might have received from my spatial journey was truly religious. Rather, I like to choose that whatever source “created” the known universe is simply a mystery that our minds can pursue alongside doctrinal conclusions reached by others about a singular, supreme “God” figure.
The great scientist, cosmologist Carl Sagan gave us his own perspective in a marvelous book entitled Pale Blue Dot. His book was inspired by an image (taken at his suggestion) by Voyager 1 on February 14, 1990. As the spacecraft departed our planetary neighborhood for the fringes of the solar system, it turned around for one last look at our home planet.
Voyager 1 was about 6.4 billion kilometers (4 billion miles) away and approximately 32 degrees above the ecliptic plane when it captured this portrait of our world. Caught in the center of scattered light rays (a result of taking the picture so close to the Sun), Earth appears as a tiny point of light, a crescent only 0.12 pixel in size.
Sagan’s thesis, in his own words, follows:
“Look again at that dot.
That's here.
That's home.
That's us.
On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, and lived out their lives.
The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader", every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there—on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.
The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena.
Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot.
Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds.
Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.
The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand.
It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known.”
— Carl Sagan, Pale Blue Dot, 1994
Perhaps my vision that morning was a remembrance of having read Sagan’s book. Note that Sagan tells this to the reader without, to me, trying to prove anything. His words are so different from the conclusions of so many of us who have chosen to take a leap of faith to their “belief” in the truth of the words written over a period of five or so millennia by other human writers in so-called “scripture.” Infallible, literal words. If I may be so bold, I would suggest that writers such as Sagan are just as worthy of the title “prophet” as any of the sages named in the “holy” texts of other cultures, which are often conflicting. Truth, to me, must stand up to universal scrutiny and acceptance.
The market for religious belief has no monopoly on faith.
OK, no more theology for the moment. Back to music. It has not escaped my notice that Sagan’s “pale dot” was blue. My early morning hour is blue as well.
Is that perhaps the missing link here that explains my “dream state”?
Are you aware of the origin of the term “blue hour”?
An online source explains it this way:
“The ‘blue hour’ (l’heure bleue) connotes a magical and fleeting transition between day and night (or dawn), characterized by a deep, tranquil blue light. It evokes feelings of peace, reflection, melancholy, and nostalgia, often representing an intimate, or ‘suspended,’ moment where the world feels calm and quiet.”
One of our finest observers of the natural world and host of an unequaled online site, The Marginalian, Maria Popova, brings us this vision:
“Blue, Rebecca Solnit wrote in one of humanity’s most beautiful reflections on our planet’s primary hue, is ‘the color of solitude and of desire, the color of there seen from here… the color of longing for the distances you never arrive in, for the blue world,’ a world of many blues—a pioneering 19th-century nomenclature of colors listed eleven kinds of blue, in hues as varied as the color of the flax-flower and the throat of the blue titmouse and the stamina of a certain species of anemone. Darwin took this guide with him on The Beagle in order to better describe what he saw. We name in order to see better and apprehend only what we know how to name, how to think about.
But despite Earth’s distinction as the Solar System’s ‘Pale Blue Dot,’ this planetary blueness is only a perceptual phenomenon arising from how our particular atmosphere, with its particular chemistry, absorbs and reflects light. Everything we behold—a ball, a bird, a planet—is the color we perceive it to be because of its insentient stubbornness toward the spectrum, because these are the wavelengths of light it refuses to absorb and instead reflects back.”
I am in deep water if I were to attempt to follow that.
But she and Sagan may just have made my point and answered my question. Where did my contemplative mind go during that most inspirational moment in memory? Or better yet, where did it take me? Please, if you will, help me here. Was my journey from the pale blue “dot-spot” to the very point of our origin more than metaphorical? It presents a great contrast to the creation stories of the world’s established religions.
If one wishes to have his faith story reach fruition as an affirmation of a life well lived, is existing in the “great mystery” enough? Or did the culmination of the journey end too soon? Was seeing at least a glimpse of the ultimate answer available, but not perceived? What more is being asked of human faith?
I have talked enough and will now let another human speak for me.
If I can claim a “spiritual” leader, the choice is simple: the monk and author Thomas Merton. He left us much too soon as he was moving towards finding a way to merge the faith journeys of Eastern and Western peoples. If one wishes to experience his thoughts on the individual “search for meaning,” you could do much worse than his New Seeds of Contemplation. In it, he seeks to awaken the dormant inner depths of the spirit so long neglected by Western man, to nurture a deeply contemplative and mystical dimension in our lives. It is much more accessible than it sounds. In essence, contemplation is his word for “prayer.”
A small sample to pique your interest:
“Every moment and every event in every man’s life on earth plants something in his soul. For just as the wind carries thousands of winged seeds, so each moment brings with it germs of spiritual vitality that come to rest imperceptibly in the minds and wills of men. Most of these unnumbered seeds perish and are lost, because men are not prepared to receive them: for such seeds as these cannot spring up anywhere except in the soil of freedom, spontaneity, and love.”
In the last few pages, he leaves the reader with this:
“The mask that each man wears may well be a disguise not only for that man’s inner self but for God, wandering as a pilgrim and exile in his own creation.
For the world and time are the dance of the Lord in emptiness. The silence of the spheres is the music of a wedding feast. The more we persist in misunderstanding the phenomena of life, the more we analyze them out into strange finalities and complex purposes of our own, the more we involve ourselves in sadness, absurdity, and despair. But it does not matter much, because no despair of ours can alter the reality of things, or stain the joy of the cosmic dance which is always there. Indeed, we are in the midst of it, for it beats in our very blood, whether we want it or not.
Yet the fact remains that we are invited to forget ourselves on purpose, cast our awful solemnity to the winds, and join in the general dance.”
So, I hope this heartfelt piece has spoken to you. As I reflect on my reason for creating this site, it has never been about becoming an authority (especially a model) about anything….
I share in order that the reader might experience another person’s uncertain journey and know that they are not alone. We can dance alone, but why? Nothing I have encountered tells me that it is the only way—quite the contrary. Perhaps there is something to be discovered in setting aside the masks we create and wandering, for a time, as pilgrims, open to what might be revealed.
It is your life. Neither I nor anyone else can tell you what it means.
All I can say is that I am glad to be on this journey with you.
The Accidental Wine Lesson
Dear Reader,
OK, time for a break from philosophy.
Let’s turn to another subject I like to pontificate on—wine.
Joanie’s sister stayed with us last weekend and I prepared a nice, light dinner for us to share as we caught up on the latest news. We sat down to a lovely meal of homemade crab cakes, crunchy, oiled and salted roasted potatoes, and my famous creamy coleslaw that had been slowly marinating for the last hour or so.
Before the meal began, I poured a small glass of Chablis (shuh-blee—it’s French; you’re welcome), paired with silky shreds of salmon and avocado perched atop fresh sushi rolls. The Chablis showed its classic profile: mouthwatering green apple acidity, a flick of sea salt and lemon, giving way to a creamy, rich finish. As a good friend who often visits our table said recently, “I want to find myself with more Chablis in my glass.” Hear, hear!
As it turns out, sister Carol really likes my food and was delighted with the choices (she also has a growing interest in wine.) As we sipped the white, I explained that the Chablis was a Burgundy wine grown in the northernmost part of the region. Its crispness, I told her, comes from the difficulty of ripening the grapes in that cooler climate and from the limestone-rich soil.
She stopped me, a confused expression on her face, “Wait a minute. I thought Burgundy was a red wine.”
I explained that people who enjoy wine but have only a layperson’s (or laywoman’s!) knowledge of its more esoteric niceties are often confused by the terminology. The problem is that most people encounter “Burgundy” first as a red wine—specifically Pinot Noir. Pinot Noir is a red grape, but Burgundy itself is a region, just as Bordeaux is.
So, the wine she was drinking was actually Chardonnay, and (almost) every white wine labeled Burgundy will be made from that grape. At this point, I noticed her eyes beginning to glaze over—an entirely common reaction when one first encounters the complexity of French wine.
We decided it was time to move to the table and enjoy the second course. With it, we served a very nice Pinot Noir from Oregon.
Uh oh.
She looked puzzled again. “They grow Pinot Noir in Oregon? I thought it was a Burgundy.”
Let the games begin.
“Here’s the problem,” I said. “The French system of designated regional names is hundreds of years in the making. It’s complex and extremely difficult for a layperson to master. The French are fiercely proud of their regional identity, and that extends to the wines traditionally grown, made, and consumed there.”
The wines we had been discussing are described as Burgundian. If you get into the study and enjoyment of fine wine, you may come to prefer Burgundy over Bordeaux—or vice versa. For the French, though, this goes far deeper than mere preference.
“OK,” she said. “So are Pinot Noir and Chardonnay grown in Bordeaux too, just called different names because of where they’re grown?”
“Oh my—absolutely not,” I replied.
The reasons are complicated but essential. And by the way, never ask that question in the presence of a Burgundian (more on that later).
“So what grapes are grown in Bordeaux?”
“Thank you,” I said. “That’s an easier question.”
Most people associate Bordeaux with Cabernet Sauvignon, and many Bordeaux wines are indeed based on that grape. But, like Burgundy, Bordeaux has subregions where other reds dominate. Within the region, growers are permitted to cultivate and blend five (possibly six) grape varieties. The two most prominent besides Cabernet Sauvignon are Merlot and Cabernet Franc.
To complicate matters further, there is also white Bordeaux, made from the closely related varieties Sauvignon Blanc and Sémillon. Merlot dominates in Pomerol, where one of the most famous wines in the world—Château Pétrus—is made entirely from Merlot.
Enough?
Consider this: beyond these famous regions lie nine additional major regions and many smaller ones. Surrounding them all are so-called “country wines” (vin de pays).
Finally, Carol spoke again.
“I don’t quite understand. Does someone tell them they must grow only certain grapes, or have they just always chosen their favorites?”
Oh my. Another can of earthworms.
Rather than get wordy, I said simply that within these important regions, grape varieties are regulated.
“Wait—do you mean by law?”
“Yes,” I said, “but it’s not quite that simple.”
Here is a brief summary related to your question (from the web):
The Institut National de l’Origine et de la Qualité (INAO) regulates which grape varieties may be grown in each French wine region. Established in 1935, this governmental body enforces the Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée (AOC/AOP) system, which sets legally binding rules governing grape varieties, yields, and production methods to protect regional authenticity and terroir.
“Wait,” she said. “I thought the French valued liberty—perhaps more than we do. Why would they tolerate that? It sounds like socialism. And what exactly is ‘terroir’? It sounds frightening. Why would anyone want to protect it?”
Whoa. Too many questions. Too many mysteries.
So I said, simply:
“All right, I hear you. But in reality, this system developed over centuries and emerged largely from the growers themselves. Much of it is about maintaining quality and regional identity.”
“OK,” she said. “But do they do that in California?”
“Simply put, no. And I don’t think you want another essay explaining why. Might we stop, have dessert, and recover? I promise to protect you—at least for now—from the dreaded terroir.”
She agreed, not reluctantly.
As I reflected on the conversation, it struck me that it had been a very fruitful exchange. I meet many people who enjoy wine but feel frustrated by it—too many varietals, confusing labels, marketing claims, not to mention vocabulary. There is also a sense of intimidation. And then, of course, there are the snobs among us who enjoy showing off their expertise in obnoxious ways. You know who I mean.
All of this got me thinking about how I might help.
Here’s my current idea: I’ve been considering using the midweek post for lighter—dare I say more populist—topics, while saving heavier ruminations for Sundays. This could be one such vehicle.
Without making too much of it, I must admit that I’ve been a “wino” for more decades than I care to admit. I’ve studied, sampled, explored, and extolled the subject with great interest. We’ve traveled extensively throughout Europe and the United States, taught courses for community and curriculum (and pure pleasure), and hosted regular tastings in our home. All of which is to say—I have much to share.
One of my more popular offerings was a short course for over-21 business students called Deciphering a Wine List for Fun and Profit. I told them they should take it whether they liked wine or not—just in case, at their first important business dinner, the boss hands them the wine list and says, “Why don’t you choose something appropriate for the food?”
They could then reply with confidence:
“Certainly, sir—or madam. Domestic or imported?”
I suspect the course’s popularity had something to do with the syllabus promising a tasting at the final session: two whites, two reds, and a rosé.
So here’s my proposal. As part of this blog, I’d like to offer short, accessible pieces—like my conversation with sister Carol—sprinkled throughout the months.
We could do it experimentally, test the waters (turned to vino), and gather your feedback. If there’s interest, we might even create short video sessions at the table, talking about food pairings and how we talk about wine. It’s not a language that should feel foreign.
Until then—
In vino veritas.
FUNDAMENTAL
Soon after posting this week’s essay on “Wisdom,” I began to wonder what the next post might be. I thought, “All right, it seems that you left out a lot yesterday.” People want and need something to go on, to live by, as we walk this elusive path toward better understanding of who we are, who we should be.
One word emerged: Fundamentals
Are there concepts—foundational pillars—that underpin our search, hold us up when the going gets rough, when the very earth beneath our feet begins to shake?
I began searching to see whether I might discern, for myself and others, essential “wisdom teachings.”
My first thought: “Is your title, your seminal thought (fundamental), perhaps itself fraught with danger?” The word sounds powerful. Is it egotistical to even contemplate that one person might hand down a “stone tablet”?
That was frightening. First, it seemed too tall a mountain to climb, but then it began to beckon, to become something like a “wicked” temptation. Should anyone truly even attempt such a sacrilege, much less be prepared to presume to “preach” it?
I hope that I am somehow communicating to you a true existential moment. I came close to stopping right there. Then I said, “coward.” You do not need to preach anything—just try to find enough remedial thoughts to heal your own yearning.
And so, as humbly as possible, I shall try to work through my musings for whatever they are worth.
But first, a “caveat.” This piece should in no way imply that I wish to become a “fundamentalist” on any topic. Rather, know without question that this is my mantra:
“All I know is that I know nothing, and furthermore, I am not so sure about that.”
I say this because, in the course of my personal and professional life, I have encountered—and been offended and indeed harmed—by several brands of fundamentalism. Experience tells me that it is, almost always, exclusionary and anti-intellectual. My preference is to keep interpersonal doors open, not closed and locked.
These emerged as my fundamentals (with short notes).
Listening is essential and constant talk counterproductive
I am a “natural” storyteller (ask just about anyone I know). My favorite high school teacher delivered exceptional preparation in Latin, grammar, and literature, and made us do vocabulary exercises for college prep. I was almost an English major. I was ultimately trained in “the law” and became a teacher. I was required to publish or perish (I almost did the latter). In other words, to paraphrase the great philosopher Muhammad Ali in an interview with Howard Cosell: “Boxing has been my life, Howard” (for me, “words”).
What I think, I tend to say. Just ask my lovely partner in life. It has cost me dearly in friendships. Some folks tend to take “fierce conversation” personally.
I am gradually learning to balance speaking and listening, a difficult task for me.
Empathy may be one’s most powerful weapon against discrimination and separation
Lack of empathy encourages closed-mindedness. In the words of Taylor Goldsmith, “It is hard to hate someone if you know what they’ve been through”, therefore, have ‘encounters’ with others—do not just move amongst them.”
You may ask anyone. I think that I am a kind person, generally speaking. My mate, among others, is trying to teach me more empathy for individuals, especially those who do not at first seem “worthy.” Thich Nhat Hanh, the great Vietnamese Buddhist monk, was known for practicing and preaching empathy in everything that he did (“Peace Is Every Step” was his lesson to the world and a book title).
Empathy is not easy in a world as divided as ours. Even Thich Nhat Hanh was forced to admit that there is a limit to our capacity to practice it. We must not let it destroy our own personhood.
Despite our differences, we all share a common and fragile existence.
Essential Practices
Music “hath charms” (and poetry)
Music, according to some wise people, is the universal language. We have been creating and performing songs since well before written language emerged. We told our histories and preserved our memories for the next generation.
It may just come from the spheres—the vast space that is still evolving and may be sending us messages and singing the creation story. It cheers us up and embraces our sorrows.
Reading is essential
Whether fiction or non-fiction, we must return to reading serious prose and poetry. Reading news and opinion online is not only a source of vexation but also debilitating.
We have scores of novels, short stories, poetry—both deep and humorous—wisdom-seeking essays and tomes.
When the mind is engaged with the works of authors who raise questions, we begin the journey toward “natural” intelligence.
Read Loren Eiseley, The Immense Journey.
Communion over shared meals brings us together in essential ways
Once the unquestioned gathering of family and friends, the shared meal is nearing extinction. It is quite often a casualty of the necessity of providing the means of surviving.
Do not let it be gone for you and yours.
If for only minutes a day, sit with your loved ones and give thanks for the communion. Invite friends to a sit-down, to a meal prepared from scratch.
Feast (with candles and flowers and your favorite beverage—yes, water became wine).
Create your own rituals.
If one separates oneself from a relationship with the natural world, it erodes soul and spirit
Get outside.
Plant a garden.
Take a walk around the block.
Visit the closest park.
Fall in love with a tree.
Look up. Watch the clouds go by. Notice a hawk on the wing.
I planted and tended, almost alone, a four-acre vineyard and lived among wild turkeys, pileated woodpeckers, does and fawns, woodchucks who dug holes and tried to break my ankles.
When I picked my first harvest, it made me feel as if I were rich.
The taste of one Barbera grape brought tears to my eyes.
It is unlikely that an individual can achieve true, fuller wisdom alone
Contemplation, meditation, sitting alone and still have their place, but exploring joys and sorrows with another human being is essential.
Find one or two others whom you can trust. Tell them your concerns and listen to theirs.
Let each other know that it is both a blessing and a curse to be truly you.
Wisdom is experiential, not a given
We learn from observing reality as it unfolds.
Make note of phenomena that confound.
Ponder them.
Nothing is all right or all wrong.
Learn from “seeing a lot just by looking” (Yogi Berra).
Fundamentalist thinking is egoistic
If you believe you know it all, have discovered the truth, then you just might be “all wrong”!
Lastly (and I will warn you), many of us do not want to hear this…
Turn off the TV.
Stop incessant scrolling.
Put down the phone.
Consult search engines only when necessary. They are full of rabbit holes.
Do you see—understand—that your attention has been commoditized and is being “sold” for someone else’s profit?
Invest yourself for your benefit, not theirs.
I am well aware that we might somehow have become addicted to these things as useful, convenient, and necessary. They are all those things and more. Take charge of your precious gift of time…spent intentionally with others… and yourself. If one loses herself, what is left of any value; you no longer have the capacity to “give”, voluntarily. You have become someone else’s prisoner.
Finale
Look, I do not pretend to “know” these things.
The idea of writing this piece, and a number of its components, came to me unbidden in the middle of the night. The essence of it, I think, arrived during a long conversation with an extremely talented musician and a very “wise” soul. We were talking about the “art” of composing. He revealed to us that he had piles of music in a cabinet that had never been recorded or even performed.
The reason? Had he determined that they were not “good” music or poorly constructed? No, he explained. Rather, when he listened to them, they were not “true.” He saw that we were confused about what that meant. He explained further, after years of composing, that he knows how to write musically professional pieces. He knew because he had done it many times, quite often because of a “commission.” Someone said, “Would you write a piece for me about…?” He could and did, to the requester’s satisfaction.
Further, he said—and I am trying very hard to recapture his exact words:
“Writing very fine music is not an ‘intellectual’ endeavor. Creating the best comes from the ‘consciousness’ of the artist. The great composers received their musical ideas and created their compositions therefrom.”
The many pieces tucked away in their cubbies were quite simply not “true,” not a reflection of the nature of the artist who conceived them.
Make of this what you will, but I propose that all these ruminations are a lesson to those of us who yearn to be “wise.” It is not a totally “rational” endeavor. It is about being still and listening to the “still, small voice” from a place of mystery.
But don’t believe me. Once again, I turn to my musical sources for guidance. After all, true “art” proceeds from the beauty of a mind in search of meaning.
Here is Mary Chapin Carpenter (Late for Your Life)
Well, no one knows where they belong
The search just goes on and on and on
For every choice that ends up wrong
Another one's right
A change of scene would sure be great
The thought is nice to contemplate
But the question begs why would you wait
And be late for your life?
Or Bonnie Raitt (Fundamental Things)
Let's get back to the fundamental things
Let's get back to the elements of style
Let's get back to simple skin on skin
Let's get back to the fundamental things
Let's dance barefoot over broken glass
Slither like a snake does through the wet, cold grass
Howl and tremble in a sleepless grind
Let's do the brain drain, leave it all behind, or
You can sit in your room and worry
You can contemplate the end
This seems to be an invitation to strip away life's complications, anxieties, and artificiality to embrace raw, honest, and "fundamental" experiences. It advocates for spontaneity—like running naked through city streets—and finding authentic connection, emotional freedom, and innocence rather than wasting time worrying or hiding.
The lyrics urge listeners to move past the "carefully prearranged" nature of modern life and focus on simple, tangible joys and human connection.
Instead of hiding or dwelling on past mistakes, the song encourages a return to a more natural state, be here now.
Conclusions
In the act of putting myself through these paces, I began to realize that I seemed to be crafting a comprehensive personal philosophy. But I also became aware of how unlikely it will be to put it into practice. I discerned, to my consternation, that in this hurried world, built upon a doctrine of ever-increasing productivity, who can pause for even a half hour of consideration, much less contemplation?
May I suggest a starting point?
Make a time; give yourself a gift. When you awake, whether you lie abed or go to your special quiet place, say, “I will make this day different in some essential way.” Choose from the ideas I have suggested. Concentrate on that one single thing. Stay aware of it. If you want to be treated better by the world, make someone else’s day better, for instance. Smiling and saying hello seems a small thing, but acknowledgement is something we all desire—to be told, “you matter.”
If we wish to pursue wisdom and enhance our lives, we must start somewhere. I have found, with respect to almost every “resolution,” that beginning is the hardest part.
Just put one foot on the path.
One Truly Final Thing
Some years ago, I received a gift. I was in the Colchagua Valley of Chile, South America, with family. We were staying at a charming country B&B. I awoke one morning to the strains of a lovely piece of music (the weather was perfect and the sliding glass door was open). I rose gently from bed and went to the exit. Much to my surprise, my youngest son was sitting on the porch…listening to the piece. The scene was ethereal.
I revisited the composition from time to time. Several months ago, I began an early morning ritual. I rise around five and sit for an hour or so in silence. I begin the day wrapped in the inspirational beauty of this piece and am simply still for an hour or so. The title tells the tale: “Hymn to a Blue Hour,” by the American composer John Mackey. I cannot recommend it to you more highly. Only you can decide if it is “true” for you.
Because of the reality of “human-sounding” language, I feel compelled to affirm that the words you just read were spoken by a human. Please join with me in pledging that, to the best of your ability, you will avoid any document that might have been written by a machine.
This essay is dedicated to my two beautiful boys and commended to their reading.
E. Clayton Hipp, Jr., February 20, 2026.
Not to be used without permission of the author.
Wisdom
“Who is as the wise man? and who knoweth the interpretation of a thing? a man’s wisdom maketh his face to shine, and the hardness of his face is changed.”
All right. Now we have done it.
How does one follow the deep contemplation of love that we experienced last week? Is love all we need; does it conquer all; is it a cross to bear or all we need to make us happy; do we simply have to wait for it to come when we are ready, or when we are afraid?
Will it turn out to be “our greatest teacher”?
I am forced to conclude that it takes a whole lot of “wisdom” to figure these things out. Once again, our conclusions quite often “beg other questions.”
Uh, oh.
May I ask you to ponder the nature of wisdom with me?
In the quotation above, from around five thousand years ago, we see that we are not alone in looking for an answer.
Should we just stop now and save a lot of time?
I think not.
Allow me to start with an anecdote. Many years ago, as I was trying to learn how to teach, someone suggested that I should require my students to keep journals. As a result, I might learn something of value about their lives and how they were reacting to my “brilliant” tutelage. I would read them periodically and give feedback as appropriate. One of the entries began something such as this:
“How dare you? This is supposed to be a class in law and you have already brought in religion!”
I was taken aback. When and how had I done that? She was quick to observe that I had quoted the Bible at the very top of my syllabus. I was forced to ponder whether that had been a “wise” choice. Please draw your own conclusions.
So let me begin by posing a few questions for your consideration:
— Is wisdom the same as knowledge or being smart?
— Are we born with it?
— What is its role in a human life?
Of course, by now you know that when I lack answers, I consult my songwriters. Makes sense to start with a song named simply “Wisdom” by the incomparable John Gorka.
A couple of starters:
“Wisdom exists, though it's not commonly found”
Wisdom's still free, but it doesn't come cheap
It's found in your dreams, not on the nights you don't sleep”
And my personal favorite:
“It's got the lonesomest howl of any dog in the pound
Wisdom resides between salt and sky
I'm too mean to quit, or too dumb to try”
Now that I call a “good start” (or perhaps a good stopping place?). My hope is that we can go on.
A tentative thought. “Professor” Gorka suggests a few concepts about the subject at hand. Wisdom is a lonesome endeavor, and not everyone attains it. It takes some hard work. It is seemingly ephemeral.
Hey, I am starting to have fun—are you? Almost makes me wish I had majored in philosophy…nah.
So, what are you thinking? Here is where I find myself at this moment. Wisdom is so much more than words. It is an ineffable thing. As much as I care for Gorka’s lyrical, amusing exploration, one can see his abiding wonder about the thing. His poem demonstrates, I think, how difficult it is to get one’s mind around its essence. Maybe that is the “wisest” thing about his effort.
As fine and thoughtful as the lyrics are, they cannot come close to the attempts of the writer(s) of the Old Testament’s so-called “wisdom” literature—words heaped upon words, for pages and pages. It wears one out to attempt a reading and not be exhausted far from the end. The question remains: does it do justice or harm to our understanding?
I shall stick with this: poetry, and the spaces between the words, are perhaps a better (the only?) way.
OK, then—what can we say of value? As I hope it goes without saying, please feel completely free to make your own interpretations. My comments, when appropriate, are merely my own.
I would like to introduce you to a writer whose name might not ring a bell, yet he is one of the most brilliant musicians, lyricists, and impactful songwriters of our times. He is not a balladeer who goes from venue to venue in his own car to play for smallish gatherings. He is the leader of an influential pop/rock band called Dawes.
His work (dare I say poetry) crosses all the modes—from stirring stories to social commentary to love songs and introspective self-reflection. Did I say lead soloist, guitarist, and primary writer? The band’s arrangements are complex and soaring, and the members listen to and complement one another.
Enough…go out and see for yourself—no matter your preferred genre.
His own personal take?
“I confuse a sense of purpose
With grabbin' the future by the throat
While the museum of my memories
Was just some blurry photographs
When I was younger I was serious
Now everything's a joke
But my friends detect a sadness
At the end of every laugh
Which has left me with a tricky sense of humor
I keep gettin' further led astray
Every punchline takes on another dimension
When you realize that the time flies either way
— Taylor Goldsmith
This leaves me breathless. It is brave reflection. Do you sense that this “summary” of a life may just be a description of almost any of us at any point in time?
Guess we better start working on our “stuff” right now. As he suggests, none of us knows how much time there is. Seems like the “wise” thing to do. But it is also an uncomfortable pursuit.
Shall we search further?
“And you wonder where we're going
Where's the rhyme and where's the reason
And it's you cannot accept
It is here we must begin
To seek the wisdom of the children
And the graceful way of flowers in the wind
For the children and the flowers
Are my sisters and my brothers
Their laughter and their loveliness
Could clear a cloudy day”
—John Denver
One of my favorite songs is from a songwriter who, depending on one’s point of view, was over (or under appreciated). He was a child of the sixties, writing mostly in the seventies. He spent a lot of time in the Rockies and greatly adored the out of doors, thinking, contemplating.
His are not the first words to express belief in the idea that “a little child will lead them”. Our society tends to discount lessons such as these as overly romantic and idealistic. We value progress even if our young suffer from its effects, and the planet is at risk.
So, is there any answer that can bridge this intergenerational gap? I do not want to tire you out.
I, for now, choose to leave you with this advice from a great band of singers and songwriters who united the idealism of folk-rock of the sixties with the throbbing rhythms of the classic bands of the next decade. On their iconic album Déjà Vu, they make this plea to parents and their offspring (and the reverse!), helping us see the necessity of passing along lessons learned.
Ponder it ’til next time.
“You, who are on the road
Must have a code that you can live by
And so become yourself
Because the past is just a goodbye
Teach your children well
Their father's hell did slowly go by
Feed them on your dreams
The one they pick's the one you'll know by
And you, of tender years
Can't know the fears your elders grew by
Help them with your youth
They seek the truth before they can die
Teach your parents well
Their children's hell will slowly go by
And feed them on your dreams
The one they pick's the one you'll know by”
—Graham Nash (of Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young)
And… Finally!
Please listen to the wisdom of Alan Jackson, one of our great “country” lyricists.
“The older I get
The more I think
You only get a minute, better live while you’re in it
'Cause it’s gone in a blink
And the older I get
The truer it is
It’s the people you love, not the money and stuff
That makes you rich”
Amen
Performance and Communion
Dear Reader,
Perhaps you may have noticed by now how taken I am with music. I literally “grew up in and into” music of many kinds. As I said to you earlier, one of my chief regrets is having failed to heed my mother’s gentle prodding to take piano lessons. I know now that, though I never chose to pursue a vocation as a musician or teacher, I have, deep down inside, a belief that, had I ever mastered an instrument and learned theory, I would have succeeded on some level. As it is, nothing was ever completely lost on me. I did “sing,” and it “made the world a better place to be,” and now I have so much music in this head that I need to, and am able to, share it with others.
Today’s post is no random account of an inspirational music event. The musical group that I will be telling you about has been a part of our life together for fifteen or so years. We (the two of us) first saw and heard them in a little venue simply called the “Cook Shack,” run by Pal and Myles Ireland. It was in the tiny town of Union Grove, NC and served mostly a local population, offering a menu of classic comfort foods and Southern favorites, including breakfast. Myles and Pal were musicians themselves, and the small narrow room was as eclectic as they were. The most memorable of “decorations” being the vintage vinyl album covers attached to cheap plastic trouser hangers that littered the ceiling. They had intimate bluegrass jams on Saturday mornings for all comers.
A friend gave them the brilliant idea to book traveling musicians on Thursday nights, on the theory that they might be willing to stop and play on their way to bigger gigs in Raleigh or Charlotte that weekend. It worked. Those of us who learned of it could sit and hear individuals and groups way above our pay grades. There were only seventy-nine folding chairs packed into the interior. There was no “stage,” so the concerts were as intimate as anyone could ask for.
Fortunately for us, the group of which you are about to read lived just up the road and played at the “shack” regularly. Though they were from the country/bluegrass tradition, the banjo player was also a composer of music that approached “classical” status. Can you imagine a “country” band of banjo, guitar, and bass playing pieces that J. S. Bach would have admired?!
Believe it.
We have heard them since, playing before thousands at festivals and in concert halls. Some of their larger pieces have even been recorded with a string quartet. You cannot make this up—I would not try.
I sincerely hope that this little piece will inspire you to seek them out or at least listen to their many, very diverse recordings. With no further adieux, I present my best effort at describing a magical musical night.
Oh, please try to attend a live concert. I did once and have never looked back.
Good things rarely last forever.
Real Tears, Cried in a Glorious Outpouring of Love
— for Jens Kruger
I want to tell you a story. I am the only one who can tell it. I say that without a single iota of egotistical human pride. On the contrary, I consider it a gift of the highest value. Saying that I am the only one who could tell it is simply to express a reality—one that I want the reader to receive very seriously.
The stories that each of us tell could only be written or spoken by that single individual. The beauty of each mind is that its conscious perspective and unconscious contemplation are truly unique. No other single human has them. All of who we are, and who no one else is, comes together in our stories, and in telling them we say a great deal about who we are, but also about the things we have experienced—things that no one else has. That is why stories are so important. We must tell them, or they will not be told.
It is a true story—not because all of the facts can be verified, but because of its message. When it has been told, the hope is that the reader will have encountered something about a “secret” of life that will ring with an undeniable clarity—one whose beauty cannot be denied.
The story begins in an improbable place and in a moment that might never have happened. In a very humble corner of the earth, there is a small rural town. For most of every year, only ordinary things happen. For one glorious weekend each spring, the extraordinary comes to visit—an international music festival. Held on the campus of a community college and now in its thirty-fifth year.
It came into being to celebrate the life of a beloved son—his father a towering songwriter, flat-picking guitar virtuoso, family man, and friend. He was also a revered ambassador of traditional American music to the larger world. Many young singers and instrumentalists from numerous countries credit his concerts and recordings with giving them a creative life in music.
On one spring day in Western North Carolina, two brothers from Switzerland arrive to be performers at the event and are taken in by their local family hosts. They are immediately moved by the hospitality they receive. They had been invited to play sets on the numerous venues scattered around the verdant campus. Almost from the beginning, their extraordinary musicality and virtuosity on the banjo and guitar endeared them to a patronage that came each year expecting to see and hear the very best of a genre that has come to be known as “Americana,” or simply “roots” music. They were not disappointed.
The brothers’ enthusiasm and sparkling personalities took each new listener in, language barriers melted away by their “universal sound”. They were invited to play at an emerging feature of the event and one that was fast becoming legendary: A Saturday Midnight Jam. By their own admission, they were up practically all night.
Unfortunately for them—fortunately for the storyteller—they were scheduled to play their last set on Sunday morning at 10:00 a.m. (if memory serves, it was cool and misty, as mornings in a creek “holler” can be in the mountains). Word had gotten around, and a surprisingly large crowd showed up to hear them.
They sat and played an enthusiastic and amazing set of largely bluegrass covers. Songs heard from vinyl recordings brought to them by their traveling father, from which they learned to play in the family kitchen back at home. Their fingering and picking were so hot and fast that few of us uninitiated could even comprehend what we were witnessing. We left the morning inspired and joyous, all hoping that the brothers would be invited back the following year. If you do not know, music fans tend to “fall in love” when they encounter new groups—certainly those that exhibit extraordinary talent.
The year was 1997.
In the fall of that year, the brothers returned at the invitation of their host family. From tales told in the ensuing years, the brothers experienced something of a “conversion.” They became very close not only with the family but with the larger community. Something special was beginning to grow. To “make a long story short,” they were invited back and became a fixture of the festival lineup. In the following years, they visited regularly, stayed for months at a time, and eventually moved permanently to the town.
Although first known for their faithful (though innovative) covers of traditional pieces, their performances began to include original compositions—songs from one and accomplished instrumental works from the other.
This storyteller was extremely fortunate to remember one night in a very small venue named The Cook Shack. During the week, it was a local burger-and-fries place run by a salt-of-the-earth couple named Herb and Pal. On select Thursday evenings, it hosted concerts by “itinerant,” but extremely talented, musicians who were on their way to larger, more remunerative venues in surrounding towns. The atmosphere could not have been more intimate or captivating. There were only seventy-nine seats available. Album covers hung from the ceiling. The “stage” was a ten-inch-tall platform at the front of the store and could barely accommodate a quartet and their instruments. Those sitting in the front row could literally reach out and touch the microphones.
The Brothers were regular entertainers, though money was not the draw (the proprietors relied on sales and gave all of the “gate” to the musicians—mostly gas money). They loved, then and now, playing for, sharing with, and interacting with their audiences. We all came one night expecting to hear their “hits,” such as “Jack of the Woods” and “Carolina in the Fall,” which were forthcoming. However, after the break (for more burgers and dogs and Cheerwine), we returned to our chairs and booths anticipating all those favorites not yet rendered. It was immediately apparent that the mood (and the mode) had changed. We were treated to a mostly instrumental grouping of selections that later became a record named “The Suite, Volume 1.” Many of the pieces had been years in the making but had not yet emerged on these shores (bluegrass having been the early theme). This storyteller was stunned by the “classic” nature of the “new” material. He knows now that what the small crowd had witnessed was the emergence of a major composer of what is known in some circles as “programmatic” music—that is, music which reflects (or is inspired by) the composer’s environment.
Nothing would ever be the same again.
Fast forward to the year 2011. The Brothers had become a beloved fixture at the festival. One of the venues was a concert hall on top of a steep hill that, at that time, could be reached only by climbing a very steep set of stairs through a natural, garden-like setting among tall trees and blooming native shrubs. Devoted fans negotiated the challenging terrain to attend the afternoon concert by the brothers. One never knows what to expect from their self-designed set lists. This day was different. It had been announced that there would be a festival premiere of a long piece entitled “The Appalachian Concerto.” The piece would include a young, up-and-coming string quartet. By this time, audiences expected that performances would include a mixture of songs and instrumental selections. This was something entirely new. The concerto would fill the entire forty-five-minute set.
Having come to adore and expect music of the highest possible quality, this listener was both ecstatic with anticipation and just a bit apprehensive. Could they pull it off? Would the promise be fulfilled?
The first movement was eclectic and complex and emotionally moving. How would it be resolved? Would it be complete—would the promise be fulfilled? As the phrases moved inexorably toward climax, many, to be sure, must have found themselves on the edge of their seats.
“Finish,” we thought, “this is already enough. I cannot breathe,” we said collectively.
Then the last chord resolved itself, and…as one, we exploded into the most spontaneous, leap-to-our-feet ovation one can imagine. The applause seemed to last for minutes. Finally, limp as a washing machine full of dish rags, we slumped back into our seats. Totally sated emotionally, we paused for more. Two more gorgeous movements followed. Beethoven’s fans themselves could not have felt more rewarded. Our own adopted son—how great will he become —how great already?
Saturday, April 29, 2023. Same hall, same trio (the brothers added a third member early on as a bass player—equally accomplished and revered). As usual, everyone was so glad to be there. It had become one big family. The musicians loved it—they were playing to a packed hall of over three thousand in their own “hometown,” though the audience included some first-timers from elsewhere (how lucky they were about to become). This was “our band.” As the first chords played, it became obvious to long-timers that the first selection would be the very same first movement from the Appalachian Concerto. So familiar, so memory-stimulating, we sat back drinking it all in. But…something felt different. The banjo-playing brother seemed more intent. His movement up and down the fretboard was more animated. The playing was at a generally higher velocity, more baroque. The movement of thirteen years before was being transformed before our very eyes and ears. “Dynamic” does not begin to do the performance justice. Not being a professional musician or music critic, one should hesitate to say more.
Though the music was beyond words, what happened next was so unexpected that it left one (or more) speechless. Before the last note had begun to fade, the entire body of listeners almost literally leapt to their feet as one. The shouts and the applause rose and went on in a display of unabashed, spontaneous pleasure. This storyteller, who for many years had reaped great individual pleasure from simply watching the facial displays and wordless interaction between the brothers, was observing the banjo-playing composer as he sat, without moving, in his chair. I saw him as I had never done before. His usually joyous visage began to dissolve. He looked down instead of out. He gently placed his hand over his heart. Gradually, with his other palm, he wiped an obvious stream of tears from his eyes. Finally, he looked up and, without words, met the gazes of the audience. Several times he mouthed the words “thank you.” He patted his chest to emphasize the import of his silent speech. He glanced aside, almost helplessly, at his brother who, seemingly reading his thoughts, eased into a song. His selection (if not already planned) was almost certainly offered as an antidote: “Carolina in the Fall,” which has come to memorialize the brothers’ acknowledgement of their “homecoming” to this sacred place.
This storyteller cannot conclude without a very personal footnote. Whatever the banjo master was experiencing at that moment, this is what has come through and what has only strengthened in intensity in the few hours since. The reaction, and the exchange that it represented, is nothing less than the very essence of the very best aspect of live music—its offering and reception—that can ever be experienced.
This musician, though he had played for a room full or a packed hall, had a moment when dual gifts were exchanged in a much deeper way. His art, born in the depths of his heart and soul, had become manifest and been delivered directly to the very being of his listeners. In a spontaneous exchange, their hearts had leapt toward him and had been viscerally experienced by him. I have no other words.
If one believes in the existence and power of love, what other name is appropriate to this moment?
[Reaction to a live concert by The Kruger Brothers in Watson Hall, Wilkes Community College, Wilkesboro, NC, April 2023)
A Love Story
Well, Valentine’s Day is upon us.
If these current times of ours have given us anything of lasting value, it seems, for me, to come down to this:
All of us are, or should be, searching for deeper meaning in our lives. Who are we and what’s to become of us? Some of the more fatalistic of us might be tempted to say “why bother?”. We have no control over the present or indeed the future. For me, that is not about living. I sense deeply that our lives do have purpose, individually and as communities of caring people. Others may simply say simplistic things such as “be happy” or find your most successful self.
OK, let’s start somewhat on a higher plane. The Beatles are famous for saying “All You Need Is Love”. But that begs the big question, does it not?
What indeed IS love?
We have plenty of sources to consult. Poets and songwriters have been besotted with the idea since language came into being. (Oh, I know, our ancestors in their caves must have thought about that special feeling too! Not to mention our precious dogs and cats). The book of Corinthians spends much time suggesting its qualities from the highest authority.
—An aside and a caution. I am well aware when the subject of “love” comes up, it is likely to trigger some strong emotions. So, here is my personal mantra. Love and hate are truly special words. One should try to avoid overuse. They should be reserved for deeply thought-out conclusions and declarations. Try your best not to throw them around cavalierly. It diminishes their value and demeans their use. I might like chocolate chip cookies, but I certainly do not “love” them. End virtue lesson.
Since I have little way of choosing among the universe of all these lofty ideas, I regularly turn to the so-called “universal language” of music, one of my passions. Let’s begin with romance. Here are some words sung by one of the very fine voices of the Seventies, Karen Carpenter:
“Love, look at the two of us
Strangers in many ways
We've got a lifetime to share
So much to say
And as we go from day
…
Let's take a lifetime to say
I knew you well
For only time will tell us so
And love may grow
For all we know”
So ephemeral. So hopeful. It is a wonderful thing, yet it recognizes the fragility that each of us experiences when we find even the “perfect” match. Is this all we really need?
It is, without doubt, a beautiful song and sentiment, but…let’s take a deeper glance. As many of us know from experience, many love stories fail to fulfill the promises they seem to offer. That leaves a lot of time to fill and a whole lot of “life” in between.
Does any kind of “love” fill all our needs as the famous trio sang? But if love is the panacea, if the deity is love, or some force that fills the vastness of the universe and has existed since the moment of “creation”, how do we know, how do we take it inside, allow it to grow and nourish us and our families and friends, and use it to save a broken world?
The Carpenter’s song “For All I know” hints at a resolution of the big question. Love may grow, which means it exists, but it also must be nourished and cared for. In this, whether I can name it or not, lies the source of my hope for all of us.
Not all songwriters are created equal (but some are created “more equally” than others). One more song might help to find an answer to our big question. I hold in very high esteem a composer whom you may not know , Kate Wolf. She left us much too early in the middle of the eighties, just as our appreciation of her talents was rising. This song has been a favorite since I heard it covered in a very small, intimate music venue in Black Mountain NC. David Wilcox closed with it in almost all of his concerts, for good reason. Some lyrics will tell part of the story.
“Kind friends all gathered 'round, there's something I would say:
That what brings us together here has blessed us all today.
Love has made a circle that holds us all inside.
Where strangers are as family, loneliness can't hide.
You must give yourself to love if love is what you're after;
Open up your hearts to the tears and laughter
And give yourself to love, give yourself to love.
Love is born in fire; it's planted like a seed.
Love can't give you everything, but it gives you what you need.
And love comes when you're ready, love comes when you're afraid;
It'll be your greatest teacher, the best friend you have made.” - Kate Wolf
On cold winter nights all of us left Wilcox’s concerts better able to face what life was throwing our way and even better to face the dawn. As you can see, I am still seeking answers to life’s more elusive questions. But music helps, and the words of our great writers enrich, and the forests, mountains, streams, and sandy beaches speak to us also.
Kate Wolf died in her forties, half a life ahead. Whenever an artist of great promise leaves us I cannot help wondering what they still had to give. But let’s not allow ourselves to look only in high places. I have a very small circle of friends and many more lovely acquaintances and a deep and abiding partnership with a woman of substance and radiance. Look around you and notice the “circle”. Be the force that draws them together and count yourself fortunate. But know that they have questions and insecurities of their own—listen to their stories. Offer yourself if they express needs or simply stand ready. “He also serves who only stands and waits”.
If one wants to get mystical they could hardly do better than one of the great naturalists of the twentieth century Loren Eiseley. A scientist of the first order, he was also filled with wonder about his experiences. Listen to his beautiful idea about love and life.
“It was the humans who nourished the highest in their nature by means of love, who lived with such exquisite tenderness for life in all of its expressions, that propelled our species from the caves to the cathedrals, from savagery to sonnets.”
Some of them, a mere handful in any generation perhaps, loved — they loved the animals about them, the song of the wind, the soft voices of women. On the flat surfaces of cave walls the three dimensions of the outside world took animal shape and form. Here — not with the ax, not with the bow — humans fumbled at the door of his true kingdom. Here, hidden in times of trouble behind silent brows, against the man with the flint, waited St. Francis of the birds — the lovers, the men who are still forced to walk warily among their kind.
“It was here that I came to know the final phase of love in the mind of man — the phase beyond the evolutionists’ meager concentration upon survival.
Here I no longer cared about survival — I merely loved. And the love was meaningless, as the harsh Victorian Darwinists would have understood it or even, equally, those harsh modern materialists…..
I felt, sitting in that desolate spot upon my whiskey crate, a love without issue, tenuous, almost disembodied. It was a love for an old gull, for wild dogs playing in the surf, for a hermit crab in an abandoned shell. It was a love that had been growing through the unthinking demands of childhood, through the pains and rapture of adult desire. Now it was breaking free, at last, of my worn body, still containing but passing beyond those other loves.”
—Loren Eiseley (author of an essential book, The Immense Journey. It must be in your essential life library)
All right. Where is this going? I just wanted to tease you with some semantics. It should be clear that I lack a definitive answer to my initial question of “what is love”. After all, this piece should simply be celebrating the holiday. So, I will finish with a couple of intriguing musical thoughts, anchored by a bit of hope. First, an inspired idea that once love has shrouded the lives of two people, it might just last forever.
“All my plans, keep fallin' through
All my plans depend on you
Depend on you to help them grow
I love you and that's all I know
When the singer's gone
Let the song go on
It's a fine line between the darkness and the dawn
You say in the darkest night there's a light beyond
I love you and that’s all I know”
—Jimmy Webb
It is mutuality that makes great loves. When two become “we” and the light of each other’s existence (even in dark times).
What if love ends? In the moment of fresh loss it can often feel like life is over. But here is a song of hope to carry with you if you have, perhaps, loved and lost.
”Well, I have climbed to lover's lane
I felt the joy, I felt the pain
Asking for another's soul
Thinking they could make me whole
Now I heard a voice from deep inside
Saying you're not blamed for love you tried
Oh, you may think that love takes two
But love's a gift from you to you
And I have tried without ceasing
To give love without regret
I know love's not through with me yet
Can you hold a place within your breast
For someone you've never met?
Then love's not through with you
I said love's not through with me
I know love's not through with us yet”
—Darrell Scott
Now, I hope you agree that this is a very fine song for Valentine’s Day. Take it with you now — and for “Down the Road.” May we each hold a quiet place within our hearts for what is still forming. I, for one, am trusting that love is not through with us yet.
With affection,
Clay
Our Table Trek
“So long as we still reflect each other (even deformed) as through silver spoons, wine glasses, and exultant bottles on the table of a dinner party about to begin, things can’t be that bad.”
The offering I bring to you today is a reflection rather than a story. It is a tale that did not exist eighteen years ago. It is a remembrance of a shared journey that has unfolded scene by scene. That is why we have chosen to refer to it as a “trek”, generally described as a long, challenging, journey by foot or (as we like to think of it) a purposeful, extended trip or migration.
I use “trek” in a very expansive sense. For us, Joanie and Clay, it rather connotes a journey of discovery, an inner journey to find meaning in the company of others, in conversation and good cheer.
This site represents our take on life (idiosyncratic and ultimately permeated with romance) life as it is enhanced and expressed through sight and smell and taste and contemplation. We believe that the only “real” answers to the confusion, distractedness and disconnectedness that many of us feel is a return to community—to learn how to be together again. We believe that the “table” (in the literal and symbolic sense) is a good place to start. A place to be approached openly, with open minds, open hands, open spirits. No “devices” (technical or intellectual) allowed.
We try to practice what we preach.
Here, at the table, is where we share our love for good food, candlelight, and flowers with the people we care about.
For eighteen years, Joanie and I have felt ultra fortunate to have encountered each other in a way where we have had the honor of experiencing a melding into something like “one”. In some ways we are exceptionally different. As in life, differences can be a source of separation but, in others, vehicles of completion.
At our table, we have discovered shared values which include the need for companionship, and perhaps most importantly, a strong desire to engage others in discovery of who they are rather than simply what they do. We try hard to view the world and those who inhabit it with as much compassion as we can muster, without losing the essence of who we are and what defines our true identity.
At times this also involves some rather “fierce” conversations when our individual ways of processing come into conflict, sometimes in ways that may seem trivial to one or the other. In sum, this has allowed us to understand each other through a frank sharing of feelings, helping us realize that our friction is more often about the need for better communication rather than true disagreement.
All that having been said, our mutuality about the things that really matter makes us a functioning entity. Where that has taken us is the places and the contexts of life that define our happiness and pleasure of existence, with some sorrows and disappointments as well.
The quotation I shared at the beginning helps to explain what I have said so far. I sincerely hope that what we have written does not come across as too personal an approach, for which I apologize, but without a shred of guilt. This thing that we are trying to do through this site is in fact a testimonial of sorts.
It seems the best way to proceed is to share with you, our reader, some anecdotes of our sharing food, wine, and companionships with others.
We regularly, for ten years or so after we met, entertained in our small cozy house. Sometimes with other couples or small gatherings for wine tastings, or back porch cookouts. In good weather, the back porch has been our chosen venue because it is ten feet wide, runs the whole back of the house and is covered. It shelters us beautifully from the summer sun and looks out over a very private, fenced backyard that is the home to a small vegetable garden (mostly heirloom tomatoes) in the summer months, framed by the gracious generosity of a few muscadine vines that dot the landscape. Our small lawn of soft-bladed Augustine grass looks after itself wonderfully, providing a plush bed for romantic stargazing on clear, warm nights.
“A shared meal is the beginning of friendship.”
The true beginning of our regular dinners was during Covid. We had a small group of friends who we knew were acting responsibly (some we had entertained regularly—others not as much). Most of us were colleagues from my days working at the university. We all had our first round of vaccines and were sheltering in place. We started small, making sure everyone felt comfortable meeting on the back porch around our large farm house table—fans blazing and enough space to spread out. At first, we only met occasionally, just wanting to get out and fight the isolating, monotony. Over time, as it became clear the quarantine-like conditions would not end any time soon, our get-togethers, became more regular until soon dinner time felt like “going home” (family, you might say). I often referred to our newly banded dinner group (or “The Pod” as one member referred to us) as a “functional family at Thanksgiving”. Thankful indeed we all were to experience those gracious and tender moments that lighted our way during dark, troubled times.
What we knew at the beginning was that we all truly enjoyed wine as food. We had traveled together and shared from our respective collections (cellars?). We began the practice of sometimes serving them at the table blind, so that we could play little tasting games. Our palates were not all equally experienced, so we called it “guessing” and, mostly, we developed our descriptive skills and broadened our vocabularies (being careful not to use terms such as “wrong”). We found out that the same wine had distinctly different characteristics for some of us. We talked about whether a given wine went better with (or enhanced) the given menu item. We had fun—serious about the wine but never taking it too seriously.
“Wine is meant to be enjoyed with food, and the best wines enhance the meal.”
All this is to say that what happened was a deepening of the experience of dining. We lingered long after the plates had been cleared, putting off the inevitable need to depart—savoring each moment together. When it was deemed safe to travel again, a few of us took a trip to California where we visited two of our favorite wine regions (Amador County and Mendocino) with a few stops in between. We eschewed hotel rooms for a common house so that we could be together, as was our habit. Our relationships continued to deepen, and even though we came from different backgrounds and vocations, our conversations at the table were anything but superficial. Sometimes they were even “animated”.
All this is to say that as we dined and tasted and explored our respective lives, we also learned some compassion and care for who we were, not just what we do. We all came from very different backgrounds and even though our politics were not the same we avoided, (for the most part), topics such as public policy and religion, holding back when we knew that we were coming too close to a personal line. We also forgave each other, as the bond we forged had become too precious to lose.
It is sad to think that many people do not have the privilege to truly dine. We become disheartened in the rare times we have dinner “out” to observe too often precious moments reduced to the glow of a small screen and silence instead of candlelight and presence.
They are missing the “magic” of being at our table.
The same could be said about most of life’s mysteries. Some just chose to “let the mystery be” thereby ignoring the beauty of the people and the world outside their little islands.
So, we extend an invitation, perhaps an evocation: Be with one another. Break bread. Share a glass of something celebratory. Sit a while and commune. Give each other the gift of presence. We believe deeply that our greatest riches can be found by simply being together.
“Friendship improves happiness and abates misery, by doubling our joys and dividing our grief.”
— Cicero, De Amicitia (44 BCE)
Special Report: The International Wine Crisis
“Wine is a mystery that holds the promise of an explanation.”
—Randall Grahm, Bonny Doon Vineyard
The international world of wine may be entering an industry-wide crisis it has not faced since Prohibition.
What, you say—wine is everywhere you look. Shelves and shelves. What could be bad about that?
Fair enough.
Let me start by telling you something that is not obvious to the average consumer.
All of a sudden, it is not selling like it used to.
Retail stores and restaurants are at the end of the pipeline. There are forces at work—some related to each other, some separate—that are severely affecting the flow.
At this point you may be saying:
“I do not even drink much, and when I do it is likely to be beer or bourbon.
Why should I read this?”
That being said, you might feel an impulse to exit the site.
But wait.
There is a moral to this story. Let me explain….
I am no expert, but I have been a serious consumer for a long time.
I have an ample cellar. I have traveled to wine regions, domestic and international. I have developed contacts at every level of the market and, as a result, keep my ear to the ground.
At every level—vineyard owners, wineries, wholesale and retail firms—the news is frightening.
Let me give you one example to capture your attention.
I have a friend who writes about the business of wine and, consequently, spends time with people at every level of the industry. His major focus is Napa Valley.
On a recent trip, a source who chose to remain anonymous confided this:
Growers of top-rated vineyards who formerly sold their Cabernet for $5,000 per ton were forced to sell their grapes for $1,000 per ton—or even less.
Other sources reported that they actually dropped fruit on the ground rather than “give it away” or spend the money required to ferment and store their excess.
For some, the problem was that they still had last year’s wine sitting in the barrels needed for aging.
Impressed yet?
If I were a reporter, I would be struggling to gather enough research and expertise to document all of this thoroughly.
But as a mere consumer—and a translator of interesting phenomena—I will try my best to help you see and understand what is happening.
A Brief History Lesson (That Matters)
Let me start with Napa Cabernet.
In 1976, Napa Cabernet won a very high-level tasting in Paris against the best Bordeaux. Some California Chardonnays had similar success against white Burgundy.
This event catapulted American wine back into the world market, which had been depressed since Prohibition.
Suddenly, California was back in the game.
Consumers and collectors who had long adopted French wine took notice. They traveled to Napa. They requested California wines from their merchants back east.
Unfortunately, the number of premium wineries—those that survived Prohibition or were founded in the late 1960s and early 1970s—was limited, and production was small.
For several years, I was able to buy wines from that historic tasting at very reasonable prices.
Then everyone wanted in.
Prices soared.
A wine already sitting in my cellar suddenly became a collector’s item—one I could no longer afford to replace.
So my friends and I chose to celebrate our “loss” by building special dinners around Cabernets and Chardonnays that now lived in the cellars of celebrities and captains of industry, and appeared on wine lists at famous restaurants—such as Bern’s Steak House in Florida—for prices that would shock you.
These wines became benchmarks for the burgeoning California wine market.
I tell you this so you can better understand what came next.
Fast Forward
Wine became fashionable.
It became a symbol of sophistication.
We were no longer the Budweiser generation.
When invited to dinner, it became customary to arrive with a bottle in hand. If your hosts were “wine people,” you might feel intimidated—hoping not to commit a faux pas.
At some level of society, wine had become culture.
This lasted for some time.
Other beverages came and went. Some people became cocktail people, bourbon people, tequila people.
But for those of us who grew up in wine, we still valued our cellars. We still discussed vintages and favorite varietals.
Then, almost suddenly, things began to change.
Health concerns rose. Once believed to be beneficial for heart health, red wine—and alcohol in general—came under scrutiny. Studies warned against any alcohol consumption. Drinking itself was framed as a disease, or at least a cause of obesity.
At the same time, studies began reporting that the last two generations were either not drinking much at all or switching to alternative beverages.
Meanwhile, another force was quietly building.
The surge in wine consumption and collecting over the last forty years encouraged massive vineyard expansion. New wineries opened. Vineyards were planted in regions that had never produced wine before.
Overproduction became inevitable.
Private equity firms and large beverage companies aggressively acquired small wineries in preferred regions like Napa and Sonoma. Long-established family names became brands—with production scaled up to satisfy investors.
Bottom line:
Wine became commodified. A product bought and sold for profit—not necessarily for quality.
Why This Matters
Supply and demand became distorted.
Massive investment required continuous growth. Advertising created desire where none had existed. Winemakers became celebrities. Beautiful destinations beckoned us from glossy ads—even if we never went there.
A sea of very good wine, and plenty of mediocre wine, began pressing against the floodgates of oversupply.
That is where we are now.
If this were purely a market correction, lower prices might eventually solve it.
But the adjustment is painful.
Retailers and wholesalers are sitting on mountains of inventory. Some have already closed. Overseas shippers face canceled contracts.
When an entire supply chain backs up, the damage spreads far beyond the obvious players.
The Human Cost
What matters most to me are the small farmers and the cellars that vinify grapes and bottle the finished nectar.
Vineyards and wineries are rural enterprises. They create communities. The people who make wine are neighbors, friends, families.
If they fail, everyone feels it.
Wine is, at its heart, a farm product—subject to the same vulnerabilities as any crop. One violent hailstorm can wipe out an entire harvest and devastate a household’s livelihood.
And yet, wine is also the most natural alcoholic beverage in existence.
Pick grapes. Place them in a clean container. Protect them from insects and fungus. Within days, natural yeasts begin fermentation.
Historians tell us the first cultivated grapes were fermented in buried clay vessels. When spring came, villagers unearthed them and declared—party time.
This magic likely began in the Middle East and spread across the Mediterranean with trade and conquest.
If the international grape glut continues, small farms—and centuries of artistry—may vanish.
In southern Europe, some vineyards have been farmed by the same families for hundreds of years.
This is history.
This is culture.
This is a way of life.
The Moral
If any of this resonates with you—or even sparks curiosity—here is what you can do.
Support independent growers and producers.
If you buy retail or online, pause before your next purchase. Ask questions.
Where is this wine made?
Who owns the vineyard?
What is their philosophy?
It is often possible to trace the wine in your glass to a real place, made by real people.
Why buy mass-produced, proprietary wine if you can drink farm-to-table bottles that are sustainably grown, often better, and frequently less expensive?
With a little homework, we rarely pay more than $25 a bottle—and often much less. We know the wine’s heritage. We can call the winery and speak to real people.
And don’t worry.
There will always be giant machines, endless rows of meticulously tended vines, and massive factories producing perfectly consistent wines—with beautiful labels—waiting for you at the supermarket.
No awkward conversations required.
“I’m always carried back to why wine was seen as magic or divine from the beginning.
I suspect it’s because it is the most familiar act of transformation.
And it is one of the very few remaining rituals that many of us have.
It makes the meal into a ritual that it otherwise would not be.”— Paul Draper, Ridge Vineyards
With care for the vine and those who tend it,
Clay
P.S. We’ve considered forming small wine group with online and in person meet-ups. If you’re interested in going deeper, drop me a line.
The Mr. Wake Forest I Knew
Edwin G. Wilson
February 1, 1923-March 24, 2024
“To be at Wake Forest is to be at a place that I could love no more, and to be with people whom I could love no more.”
Me and Ed at a “Spring Fling” party in his home in 2018
Dr. Wilson came to Wake Forest as a student in 1939, taught for one year after service in WWII and returned from graduate school in 1951 as a faculty member in the English department. He was successively a department chair, dean, and retired in 1993 as the provost of the university. We called him Mr. Wake Forest. I was honored to be able to call him friend. He is one of a handful of folks who have been the most influential in my life.
I left Clemson University in 1991 and became a member of the WFU faculty. At our new faculty orientation, he talked for forty-five minutes (no notes) about the university’s history.
His voice, his eloquence, and his clear admiration for the place prompted me to say to myself: “you are home”. That did not change.
Within a semester I was invited to join an informal group of faculty and administrators called the High on the Hog Society. Its sole purpose was to share, once a quarter, a meal at one of the many fine barbecue restaurants in the area. We would receive a message from the “Chief Hogistrator”, assemble, and carpool to our destination. On my inaugural Q-run, a car picked me up at the curb and when I slid into the backseat, there was my inspiration (and soon to be hero), in the flesh. We hit it off immediately (Ed never met a stranger) and talked all through lunch about our favorite experiences. This was one of many such moments to come.
When he died at 101, I put pen to paper and wrote an appreciation of my life as his friend, sending it to his wife Emily—a very fine writer herself. It was sent to her as an an intimate act of remembrance, never intended for publication.
His public stature and long tenure to Wake Forest are widely known, yet I was extremely fortunate to have known him more intimately, sharing many precious moments in his presence.
So, on this day, when he would have celebrated his 103 birthday, I offer this once private remembrance to you, to mark the occasion and to celebrate a well lived life. My hope is that those who read this will feel some of what I felt then…and what remains with me still.
Edwin Graves Wilson: Through Existential Eyes
December 13, 2024
Ursula Le Guin is one of our greatest, and most underappreciated, writers. She is best known for her “future history” novels about the Hainish, a civilization that seems to have outstripped other races on other planets and seeks to establish contact with them by peaceful means. My favorite is named “The Telling”. It concerns a planet on which a new government, based on commerce, seeks to cancel historic culture by creating a common state “religion”. It banishes books and destroys libraries and bans all other religious and spiritual practices that might threaten the controlling authority.
In rebellion, an underground society arises with emerging leaders who are mature, mostly from the countryside and small villages and who lead seemingly unimportant lives. They hold secret meetings, and store and protect the remaining old books and texts. In each community cell, stories are told and memories shared in order that they remain “alive” for future generations. These gatherings are called “tellings”.
When we lose someone, their lives, no matter how loving and well-loved they were, tend to become lost, disappear little by little.
They live on only in our collective memories. The life of any of us can only be truly revealed through a melding of many “tellings”. No single person can tell their story; we all experience them differently.
This story is only mine to tell. It is a deeply personal, anecdotal, tale about how my love and respect for Dr. Edwin Wilson was forged by the privilege of proximity and informed by direct observation and years of interactions.
Who am I to tell you this? But that is the point. No one else can do it, any more than I can tell yours.
I do not claim that my view is an unbiased account. From the first introduction I had to Ed, I learned that ideals exist, that they can be lived and consistently observed in a single life. Others may tell details of a long, illustrious career. This telling is simply my idiosyncratic attempt to add an illuminating light to the shining example that was our centenary gift.
In the fall of 1991, a mid-career “scholar” arrived on the Wake Forest campus looking for a home. His path had meandered over familiar red clay hills and through flaming desert sands. The journey, though enlightening and revealing, lacked true fulfillment. The wonder of academe, the spanking new freedom of the mind, had begun to wane under the glaring face of reality. As we all know, ideals seldom stand up fully when put into practice. Yet one must always continue to hope the journey is not being undertaken for naught.
On one shining day, over the course of an hour, the old dreams broke through, and the waning myth was rekindled. The beaming face, the mellifluous voice, the overflowing spirit of warmth and welcome, told the tale of a place clearly apart, and very deeply loved. At that moment, the promise of a spiritual resting place for a tainted vision was revealed. Ed Wilson, in all his glory, hinted that the journey had taken on new meaning as he retold the history of Wake Forest. What a welcoming message for a doubt-ridden prodigal to hear.
The big question is how does one capture the essence of a true phenomenon?
I have never known anything like it.
So long and so prominently in a place that it sometimes seems to bear his name as much as he has come to be called by the name of the place. For Ed Wilson, from his late boyhood throughout his long “retirement”, Wake Forest and the man seemed completely intertwined, at least to the observer. Certainly, from my first viewing and listening experience of him, he was my Wake Forest personified.
What follows are my personal reflections, offered through a series of anecdotal moments, as they first came to me.
I have a propensity for all things “barbecue”. Quite soon in my early tenure, I learned of an elite organization with the highfalutin title “The High-on-the-Hog Society”. Informally—but very officially—membership only came through an invitation by an existing member. Somehow, I was invited to one of its events and soon found myself in an official vehicle, bound for our designated meeting place. As I slipped into the back seat, I was amazed to find my fellow traveler was none other than “Mister Wake Forest” himself. For the twenty-minute drive we talked as if we had always known each other about one of our favorite topics—the virtues of smoked and chopped pork. Soon enough I found myself regularly side by side, at the table, with my once and future idol, whom I now called friend. Over the ensuing years, we repeated similar forays—both with The Society and on more intimate trips—often in the company of our esteemed colleague Dr. Herman Eure, whose presence will appear again in these pages.
There was an added benefit and a very fine one. When my son entered Wake Forest in 1996, I asked Ed (careful not to impose on our growing and special relationship) whether he might serve as Stuart’s academic advisor. He gladly made it so. Ed was still teaching then, and his poetry classes were almost impossible to get into. Not only did my oldest boy have Mr. Wake Forest as his advisor, he also managed to take two of his poetry classes. Ultimately—and I believe largely because of Ed’s influence—Stuart became every ambitious parent’s nightmare: the dreaded “English major” (or to me, someone’s wildest dream).
Over the next several years, as I came to know the institution more fully, I asked for an audience with the retired—but still very busy and active—Ed. On one such occasion, after my love and respect for the greater WFU had grown dear, I visited his designated “throne room” in the university library.
My concern at the time was that after a decade into my life as an acclimated member of the faculty, the university’s essential nature was changing too fast. The new millennium was upon us. I asked, simply, “Do you feel it too—and if so, what can I, what can we, do about it?”
His answer, characteristically diplomatic, was this: “Clay, go out and find all the people on campus who share your concern, and work among yourselves.”
I wanted a revolution.
He suggested a conversation.
In frustrated silence, I departed with my proverbial tail between my legs.
Ed, Herman and Me
Dr. Herman Eure and I had been dedicated companions as runners during the noon hour from the first week I came to campus. We were fellow confidants and mutual therapists. Our strongest bond? Our love for Ed Wilson. We began to become concerned that, despite his long term, continuous “reign” of distinction as Mister Wake Forest, his legacy was not being officially documented. Perhaps, we worried, his distinction was being too much taken for granted. We began to lobby for an official, visual, commemoration of his life and history with the institution. Our chosen vehicle would be a documentary of him on the old campus in Wake Forest town.
For several years we sought funding and support to mount a trip, hoping to send a small crew and entourage to capture him in his element. We were unsuccessful. Then, out of the blue, we learned that a new member of the Communications faculty had arrived, someone who had significant experience in filmmaking. Suddenly, through a series of conversations with him, funding was secured and a plan set into motion. (An aside: the project found new life through the university’s advancement efforts, tied to a broader fundraising campaign. This meant that Dr. Eure and I would not be in control of the project or its content in the way we had envisioned. Still, it was going to happen, and our hope of capturing one of the university’s greatest treasures would be fulfilled.)
On a glorious spring day, an entourage wound its way through the Carolina midlands, setting up cameras at various locations on and off campus. Among the stops was Shorty’s Diner—the pool table still dominated the backroom— where hot dogs and cold drinks were shared, along with conversation about the “good old days” with Ed and a former, long time Chaplain (and equally famous) Ed Christman. They reminisced about movies across the street and late-night snacks. Magical.
Ed Wilson and Ed Christman
We strolled through buildings and grounds capturing more candid conversations with Dr. Wilson and Ed Christman. As the day drew to a close, Dr. Ed was captured on video giving an informal soliloquy on what it was like living and teaching in the “home” of the university on the Old Campus. Earlier he had reminisced about his love for athletics in the old gymnasium, including anecdotes about particular players and contests. Throughout all of this, we were continuously amazed by the command of his memory and the precision of his recall—he was already well into his eighties. As we filmed his historical summary, outdoors, the director realized that ambient traffic noise and a too sensitive microphone had probably ruined the audio. He asked Doctor Ed if we could start over (the talk had consumed the better part of a half hour), he graciously consented and quoted himself almost verbatim from memory—there was no script.
Looking back on that time—a whole day watching Ed, or standing at his side—one single anecdote seems to define the experience. Even if Herman and I had only been mere observers it would have been enough. Instead, as the instigators in some real sense, we were privileged to be made a part of his memories and, indeed, the spirit of Old Wake Forest, as it could only be told.
We stood in the gym, somewhere around mid-court. He pointed out where his seat was (as if he ever used it!) and told us of the Duke game in 1953, when Dickie Hemric scored a game-high forty-four points to seal the victory. (For those who do not know, Hemric was a superstar in two sports—you ought to look it up.) Through Ed, we were as close to being there as one could be.
Wake Forest Athletics were a huge part of Ed’s campus existence. He served the college as its representative in the conference and the NCAA. He probably attended every game as long as he was able. (Certainly a personal record among Deacon fans).
The day ended with a stop at the “legendary” barbecue establishment Allen and Sons, near Hillsborough (the owner was still splitting his own hickory for his pits in 2004). We sat with Ed, the Christmans, Mary Beth Wallace—one of Ed’s greatest admirers and collaborators—and the camera crew, continuing to swap richly textured stories.
Ironically, though we were still relatively close to the original Wake Forest Campus (located in Wake Forest, NC), Herman and I learned that it was Ed’s first visit there. It felt like a genuine privilege to be able to claim that honor with such a legend—and devoted connoisseur of NC Barbecue.
A few years later Herman and I engaged another camera crew and had a long conversation with Ed in the balcony room of Wait Chapel. Again, try as we might, we were unable to interest the “powers that be” to create duplicate copies of the conversation in some format to share with the larger Wake Forest community.
But we did it—we had the intimate experience—and we have copies in our private collections to view, as we will, whenever we need a “fix”. Have no doubt—Ed Wilson was a trip.
But, most of all, we have our memories, and the sharing, and the caring, and the mutual loving. My wish is that everyone reading this modest effort could have experienced this man Ed Wilson in his ever-present glory. He was, throughout, a friend, a gracious supporter, a gentleman scholar, a poetic speaker, a mentor of generations of students and faculty, and the finest public face that any institution could hope for. I wish you could have heard him read Christmas poetry in the small chapel under Wait Chapel! His favorite was by Christina Rosetti made into a song: “In the Bleak Midwinter”.
In our last, public, encounter, a group of us celebrated the birth date of another Wake Forest institution, Bill Starling—the longtime admissions director—in yet another barbecue restaurant. Ed, at one hundred, came in his wheelchair and mostly listened hard (the place was crowded and loud). Despite his hearing aids, Ed struggled to hear and understand greetings and questions from old friends and admirers. Nonetheless, he spoke lucidly, and we were all inspired and amazed to be in his now legendary, centenary presence.
Ed, my hope is that others may tell “their” stories at every opportunity in order that the tradition that you represent will live, in truth, in the hearts and minds of anyone who has served, or simply loved, Edwin Graves Wilson University (aka, Wake Forest).
If I had gotten wealthy from an illustrious academic career (wink), I would donate enough to the institution to create an endowed chair: a Distinguished Professorship in the Liberal Arts and Humanities. The position’s main role would be to create courses and forums whose purpose was to reinvigorate and enhance and reinstate the college’s emphasis on its inspiring motto, “Pro Humanitate”. If possible, there would be an annual event during his birth month that would bring scholars and distinguished voices to the campus for a weekend of the most vibrant celebration of Wake Forest’s finest son. There would be poetry.
A.R. Ammons, a North Carolina boy like Ed, was one of his favorites. His tribute to Ed:
For Edwin Wilson
By A. R. Ammons
Did wind and wave design the albatross's wing,
honed compliances: or is it effrontery to
suggest that the wing designed the gales and
seas: are we guests here, then, with all the
gratitude and soft-walking of the guest:
provisions and endurances of riverbeds,
mountain shoulders, windings through of tulip
poplar, grass, and sweet-frosted foxgrape:
are we to come into these and leave them as
they are: are the rivers in us, and the slopes,
ours that the world's imitate, or are we
mirrorments merely of a high designing aloof
and generous as a host to us: what would
become of us if we declined and staked out
a level affirmation of our own: we wind
the brook into our settlement and husband the
wind to our sails and blades: what is to
be grateful when let alone to itself, as for
a holiday in naturalness: the albatross, ah,
fishes the waves with a will beyond the
waves' will, and we, to our own doings, put
down the rising of sea or mountain slope: except
we do not finally put it down: still, till
the host appears, we'll make the masters here.
The Life and Times of a Homespun Golf Game
(Chapter One)
If I told you the truth, you would not have wanted to grow up there. A small, textile town in the Piedmont of South Carolina.
The banner of the weekly Whitmire News claimed 2,000 residents (dream on); the main street was four blocks long with two churches, two gas stations, two pharmacies (one with a soda fountain), one grocery store, a hardware store, and a “dime store,” a hometown bank, a post office, and one place to eat (it had a name, but since it had no competitor, the person at the register answered the phone saying simply, “Café!”).
Downtown Whitmire, South Carolina Circa 1950’s
Nearly half of the people worked for JP Stevens, the cotton mill—the rest taught school, ran businesses, or were town employees; two doctors who ran the clinic and made house calls; a lawyer. You drove either a Chevy or a Ford (and drank either Coke or Pepsi) because that’s all we had and if a person drove a Dodge, they were considered uppity. For everything other than essentials, you drove at least seventeen miles—or fifty if it was a big deal.
After it had become clear that cotton did not adapt well to the red clay soils of the South Carolina “upcountry,” the Piedmont of the Carolinas evolved into textile towns. Virtually every town became a mill town, processing raw cotton (from low-country farms) into thread and woven cloth. Whitmire and the Stevens plant were home to spinning machines. If you entered the cavernous interior, you were enveloped in a small storm of white lint from the spinning process that turned raw cotton into huge balls of thread. We did not know it yet, but this cloud was inhaled by lifetime employees who developed emphysema and “brown lung” later in life. The noise was a deafening clatter, and many became hard of hearing. They worked in one of three eight-hour shifts, covering the full twenty-four hours of the day. They lived in small frame houses built by, and rented from, JP Stevens. It was known as the “mill village.” Life was basic and hard.
J.P. Stevens & Co. Mill Workers in Whitmire, SC
There was one major saving grace. In addition to paying the wages that drove the “economy,” JP built tennis courts and a nine-hole golf course that everyone played for free. We did not even realize that we were missing a country club—we were country. All other sports were school teams and fairly well-developed little leagues (in truth, we did not have enough kids to field a league. We played all our games in a larger town seventeen miles away.
I, a “towny” (because I did not live in the village), was the son of a schoolteacher and a father who originally worked for the family business—a Humble Oil, Esso gas station, a precursor of Exxon. Yet, I too was a beneficiary of living in a “company town.”
As a direct result of the gift I had been given, I played golf from around the age of eight and developed a very natural, free-flowing swing that repeated with no conscious effort—a swing formed, nurtured, and tested on a rolling, nine-hole track in the Piedmont of South Carolina. Situated on the banks of the Enoree River, there were no sand traps, and, in retrospect, the greens and fairways were adequate at best, subject to the changing seasons and the lack of a true groundskeeper (though I had nothing to compare them to). We did not know what we were doing; we just played and found what worked.
The course had been built in the thirties by the owners of the cotton mill. There was no clubhouse, no first-tee starter, but everyone in the town of roughly sixteen hundred residents could play for free with no starting time.
The course had no pro, but several experienced players to pair with if they were not hard at work. There was no “sporting goods” store, so clubs were either handed down or ordered from the postmaster, who charged no fee to obtain equipment from an unnamed source. You picked them up from the trunk of his car. (I have no idea whether he marked them up, but it did not matter—we were playing in the wilderness.) I began with a hand-me-down set from my father. He gave no history of the clubs or his proficiency in the game.
My friends and I learned from simply playing. I now think that might have been the best way. We played the course and certainly compared our games with each other, but I remember no rivalry. Occasionally, we would pick up a game with an old guy or two. Being young and strong, it was quite a surprise when one seemingly ancient fellow beat us with his short game. I would come to covet his skills later on.
One can get pretty good simply by playing. We made lots of pars, probably some birdies on the easier holes, and could regularly hit drives over a large corner pine at the dogleg par five. I never bothered to actually measure, but based on the length of the hole and the short approach if one successfully negotiated the lonesome pine, one might conclude that we, as pre-teens, were hitting it 250. When we got tired of the layout, we would play it backwards, much to the dismay of our elders.
Much later, in the twenty-first century, I discovered a young professional named Kevin Morikawa. He was an extremely creative shot maker. He seemed like a player on the rise. I read about him and discovered that he learned the game early from a teacher who did not think much of the practice tee. Rather, he took his young student to the course, where he made him play shots from several fairway positions on each hole. They talked strategy, club choice, and side-hill lies. He learned the game by playing under real conditions. Looking back, that seems to be a better way of discovering the game itself. It certainly worked for him—a future British Open champ.
My memory tells me that due to our regularity of play and ever-increasing knowledge of the course and its eccentricities, we measured ourselves against par. It would not surprise me to learn that as we grew in stature and into the game, we often came close to par—never realizing how fine a thing that was.
I do not even remember what our scores were. We played the course because it was what we had, and, since in the fifties there was no reliable state or national source of sports news, we had nothing to compare our experience with. The game was the thing (along with our baseball, football, and basketball). It was a small town. In order to field teams, everyone played every sport. We had no city leagues and drove seventeen miles to nearby Clinton for little and pony league competition.
So, for this one person, regardless of the context, the “game” was an absolute luxury (and I had a lot to learn about the beauty of personal accomplishment.)
Playing is the word, whether golf or any of the other sports. Small town life taught me that organized physical activities are much like life—cooperation, ups and downs, successes and failures, testing your capacity to adjust to ever changing challenges, and that “tomorrow is another day.”
Growing Up, and Into, Music
“Matter delights in music, and became Bach”
—Ronald Johnson
My Mother: Evelyn Chambers Hipp
This morning, I want to talk with you about music. It is a major contributor to the person that I am, that I have become. My mother introduced me and my little brother. She was an amateur pianist, an alto in our local church choir, and an advocate of truly “listening” and making music “instrumental” (more about that below).
For me, offering music to others seems almost like a personal duty as a result—a sacred trust.
A major component of this site is, and will continue to be, a separate blog about music in general, but specifically, here at the start, a radio-like show. Shortly, we will be offering a program called “Words That Sing.” If I were to be more audacious and descriptive, not to mention presumptuous, it might be called something like Poems That Sing: The Transcendent Power of “Lyrical” Music.
Each week, we will be offering the works of artists who write (and sometimes perform) music that transcends mere tunes and lyrics but is rather a melding of the two. Neither of the two would have the same impact on their own.
This is a conclusion and conviction I have reached from decades of listening to and occasionally singing them.
I believe a few things deeply:
— “Music hath charms.”
— Songs touch us at an essential level
(just as all good art can).
— We do not truly “listen” to music very well.
And if we did,
our lives would be significantly enhanced.
For me, it is a shame that in our busy lives the only music we experience on a regular basis is “ambient”—a backdrop to our lives in places of business, as we relax at the end of the day, and to create moods for our special moments, which seem to be getting more and more rare.
So, in this hour or so each week, I will be asking that you join me as I attempt to make my case.
If that is my task, please allow me to give you a glimpse of my inspiration and motivation with this little musical “résumé.” 😊
If I were you and was being asked to go on a literary journey, I would want to know, up front, who was speaking to me. That is just who I am. I have learned from personality and experience, during a long, rewarding life, that it is important to consider the source.
It is not so much lack of trust.
I am not, by nature, a skeptic.
I just do not want to waste any of my precious time considering a serious topic, such as this one, without having some idea of where it is coming from and what has informed another person’s care for the subject.
In other words, it is always prudent to consider the source.
I should tell you, for what it is worth, that what follows began as a somewhat whimsical little piece, an introduction to a much larger work that I have been working on for several years. A work that has taken on a small life of its own. I keep rewriting it because I have not yet captured the right “voice” that might attract a wider audience. My first and second efforts proved too “narrative,” even “professorial” (as per my previous vocation).
Maybe sometime it will see the light of day.
Until then, humor me, please.
Let’s go….
Growing Up, and Into, Music
This little book is the “child” of a baritone ukulele.
It was a gift from my mother at Christmas 1963, before my senior year in high school. I have come to believe that it was symbolic of her disappointment, a decade earlier, when I chose baseball over piano lessons.
Over the next year, I practiced and played simple three-chord arrangements whose identities have escaped me. I only know that by next Christmas I could play and sing without being embarrassed. During practices for our senior play, I surprised my classmates with singalongs. They knew me only as a very good student and a “fair-to-midlin’” multi-sport athlete. We had one classmate who played piano and who would become “most talented” in the senior yearbook. A very attractive young lady friend gave me a boost when she confided that, if she had known about the ukulele, she would have voted for me instead.
The summer of 1964 found us in a summer of love and protest. My favorite songs became “If I Had a Hammer” and “Blowin’ in the Wind,” and I worked hard to learn them both. They served me well as I went to summer camps and Methodist Church youth assemblies.
I was a traditional southern boy, so this was my only contribution to the nascent protest movement sweeping the country.
It felt good to “hammer” out the energetic chords of Pete Seeger’s lyrics at parties. (I was bold enough to sing Bob Dylan’s “The Times They Are A-Changin’” from the back of the sanctuary one night when the youth were in charge of the service.) Later that summer, I attended a “Youth and Missions” retreat at Lake Junaluska, NC (a lovely denominational summer getaway in the Smoky Mountains).
Two significant things happened there.
Musically speaking, I met another “performer” who would become a friend as I entered college that fall. He played a “banjo uke” better than I could the baritone. We worked up a small repertoire of songs and regaled the young lady attendees with our sparkling personalities and (quite good) harmonies. The power of song was not lost on us.
The other formative moment shook me to the core.
At that same retreat, on a bus trip to an outdoor play, we stopped in a small town for snacks. A “liberal” pastor, who was leading the trip, came on board and announced that we were going to have a “sit-in” at a diner nearby because of a racist sign in the window. A goodly number participated, but I chose to remain in the back of the bus with a young lady who was fast becoming a “girlfriend.” We were from small towns and scared to death about being arrested. The protest movement had become real.
All that is to say that playing music became a more conscious endeavor.
The emotional excitement of playing music began to take form and join with the real and symbolic lyrical content. Without truly “knowing” it, I was aware for the first time of the poetry of songs I had learned.
Over the years, this realization never left and has brought me to this day—and to this writing.
The baritone uke soon spawned a six-string Gretsch classical guitar, which became my true musical companion and led me to become a member of a trio that played together through college. It also gave me many magical nights around campfires at summer camps where I was a counselor.
The final piece of my introduction to, and love of, playing live music was a gift.
In college, I was a member of the men’s glee club. We sang at college events and various local holiday celebrations. We took a spring break tour each year to destinations in the Southeast (New Orleans, Florida, and D.C.). We sang in churches and civic clubs and a country club or two. At the end of my first year, a duo who had played during intermissions graduated. The choir director approached three of us, who were “known” as musicians, and suggested we put together a trio to replace them.
After discussion, we accepted and became “Those Guys Again”—figure it out for yourself.
We were “folkies,” children of the sixties (Peter, Paul and Mary; Bob Dylan; Pete Seeger; Woody Guthrie—and even a Beatles number!). Our first song was “Early Morning Rain” by the Canadian giant Gordon Lightfoot.
Off and running, we played around town at civic clubs and church groups and the like—no money, just fun and occasionally a free meal. At the end of three years, we were pretty pleased with our sound and a growing playlist.
Those Guys Again
Jon Stanton, Clay Hipp, Jack Sprott
(L to R in title picture)
Wofford Glee Club
1967-1968
We continued to add new songs for our various “gigs.” Towards the end of our senior year, we even hinted to each other that we might try to “take it on the road” (one of us had played coffee houses during his high school days). I was going to graduate school and felt free, as did our minstrel member. Before we could talk seriously, the third, and most talented, of us (he wrote and arranged his own music and was a talented guitarist) announced, “I am getting married in the summer.” The end—but a great ride nonetheless, a small taste of possible fame.
It was also a sign that my life was changing, going in a different direction. It hurt a little at the time.
I have come to have that feeling more and more strongly as time has passed. Reflection revealed that I really did have enough talent to succeed in life dedicated to music. I had a lovely (I am told) high tenor voice. I had a rudimentary understanding of music theory based on experience, not technical training.
I had sung harmony and solo in several performing contexts: early church choirs in which I experienced Bach’s contrapuntal harmony along with more traditional hymns; being good enough in the college glee club to be appointed “tenor section leader”; and there is no discounting that the solo and group public exposure gave me confidence and a wide-ranging experience in numerous kinds of music. If I had used my acceptance into graduate school as a deferral from the draft, I and the trio might have hit the road and become real “folkies.”
As I have said, the musical genius in the group was already writing original songs, and the other guy was a traveling solo act in coffee houses up and down the East Coast as a teenager—he was worldly wise, as they say. Instead, I took my ROTC Army commission, deferred my grad school, got married myself, and entered active duty in the fall.
A year later, I was off to Southeast Asia. On returning safe and sound (!), I went to graduate school, practiced a little law, had children, and entered the new world of college teaching. Needless to say, my musical life suffered as a result and took a fifteen-year hiatus (not to say “sabbatical”).
There is another chapter which truly cemented my singer-songwriter obsession. Perhaps I will tell you later (on request)? 😊
Once again, thanks for reading.
Clay
ORLANDO GATITO
The Extremely Famous Cat
He was larger than life for someone so small and one of the finest non-human animals in my experience. His presence continues to permeate our lives, as we are often reminded of how his quiet, steady companionship bore witness to our becoming.
I have written elsewhere at some length about his life with us. At some point—when we have gotten to know each other better—I may be able to share more of his story. For now, I will just offer this.
By now, you have learned something about Joanie and Clay. It feels only right to complete the triangle with the story: the namesake of “The Orlando Gatito Society.” Our triangle was not just symbolic; it was substantive and very real.
Here is the short version of why he became such a huge factor in our lives.
The first week of July 2008 saw the convergence of several forces in my life. I had just closed on a small cottage in an historic neighborhood. Joanie and I had met months earlier at a coffee shop, Cafe Roche, and suddenly learned that it was closing. The owners, Orlando and Lina, had decided to move back to their original home in Seattle due to the effects of the recession. While their coffee shop had been opened for a little over a year, the care and warmth they imbued created a wonderful tight-knit community. The two of us decided that we could not let them go without a party that conveyed what the shop had meant to us. So we exchanged numbers and began planning outside the coffee shop.
Soon after, the Roches closed the shop on a Sunday afternoon for the private celebration. We prepared the food, decorated the tables, and poured the wine. Soon the little shop filled with loyal customers and friends. No one wanted to leave. A handful stayed behind, and we finally broke up around two a.m. As Joanie and I drove home we realized that our traditional meeting space was gone and we wondered what came next.
I think it dawned on us, separately, that our relationship changed after that night. We had not come close to a date, though Joanie later confessed that when we met at a wine bar to plan the event, the sun shining through the window illuminated my clear, Caribbean blue eyes and gleaming, white henley shirt, making her think, “Hmmmmm”—my tan from working in the vineyard didn’t hurt either ;-).
We met a couple of times at other coffee places. I had no idea if the attraction was mutual or just the residual goodwill from the party. I have never been good at the “courting thing” but finally found the temerity to ask her if she would like to “go out”. She suggested Thai food which was a complete mystery for me (which became obvious when I did not even know how to order). Despite displaying my culinary ignorance, several real dates followed. Romance? I began to think so and was delighted when she reciprocated.
All that is to say that suddenly and without warning, we became inseparable. We began making ordinary decisions together that carried symbols of permanence. We choose a dining room table together, the kind that promised long, candlelight meals and even longer conversations. We were no longer just visiting each other’s worlds, we were making one together.
As all of this was unfolding, I discovered poor little Orlando—no more than six weeks old—seemingly abandoned in a campus parking lot where I worked. I gathered him from beneath a car, dirty ears, feet, and nose and all, and carried him back to my office.
Knowing he must be hungry, I fetched an envelope of tuna from a campus convenience store. I sat in my office with little Orlando and called Joanie. She knew I had been thinking about adopting a cat for some time and convinced me that my meeting with this little orange orphan was a sign from the heavens (cats have always been an essential part of my life) and I eagerly agreed. At the day’s end I took him home, bought a litter box, and installed him in the guest room.
A few days later at the coffee shop I shared my story with Señor Roche and asked if I might name my newfound companion, Orlando, in honor of our short but very sweet little coffee klatch. He graciously agreed.
For sixteen years, he, Joanie, and I were a close-knit trio in that little bungalow.
“ORLY”
Circa 2009
So, you see, I could not start this website without him. Our triangle was complete—formed during a magical week in July 2008—and it remains the quiet foundation of all that followed.
Another defining moment of that year soon followed: my first grandchild, Mila, was born in November. Her arrival was marked by a small Japanese maple that her father and I planted in the flower bed by our front door. It remains there today, a symbol of growth and the changes that the seasons bring to our lives.
After the shop closed, Cafe Roche friends began meeting in our home occasionally and I began sending out a regular email to friends and family that I began affectionately calling the Orlando Gatito Society, I used the name to represent the sense of community, continuity, and joy that had grown around this small, orange catalyst.
Words matter. They try their best to portray ideas and feelings that we struggle to express. Sometimes, in a very long while, they emerge and become a kind of truth. The name Orlando stands for something precious to Joanie and me and to many of our friends and relatives who were fortunate enough to make his acquaintance. He was not overtly affectionate, but neither was he one of those standoffish, run-and-hide felines. He was not a lap cat, but if one of us was available, you might find him curled up close by. When he desired a good scratch, he made that clear with a stoic stance and precise eye contact. He roamed the neighborhood as a young explorer but returned soon when his chores were done. When challenged by would-be rivals, he resisted combat but rather stood his ground, rising above the callous yowling, ever the regal neighborhood prince.
He left us on July 21st, 2024. He has a little plot of his own in our small, private backyard, not far from some of his favorite leafy patches of sunlight. Out of respect, and reluctance, we have not yet replaced the presence of his absence but will when the time seems right and the spirit makes itself known. In the meantime, may his rest be peaceful, until he returns as the “king of the jungle” he was destined to become.
So now you have it—the magic of “Three”: Clay, Joanie, Orlando. The human mind is fueled by memory. Long may it live.
Clay
P.S. Readers of the Jomeokee Journal are considered honorary members of the Society! 😊
No One Is an Island
…entire of itself
If I am asking you to spend some of your precious time with me, I feel a need to share more about the life experiences that inform me.
Each of us at any stage of our life is an amalgamation. Someone has said that “memory is mind”. We have relationships. As we grow, we develop preferences. Information flows in relentlessly from many sources. Our personalities are formed and molded and recast continuously. If we are fortunate, there are more positive impacts than negative. At some point we stand naked and vulnerable to all who choose to encounter us. This can be frightening or exhilarating or simply boring and mundane.
If we are brave, we come accept and live within this reality. In the coming weeks, I shall “expose” some of the forces that memory tells me were among the most formative. Eventually, I will reveal figures from music, literature, and family that feel essential parts of who I have become. I shall begin more “humbly”.
In the small mill town of my youth, I attended with regularity the church one block from our house. My mother’s father was a Methodist minister so that was our choice (instead of my father’s Baptist congregation one block in the opposite direction). In that church there was a regular looking guy and his lovely wife. In middle age they remained childless. He invited the young boys to join him on Saturday morning hikes in the surrounding woods. The woods were a part of a national forest so there were very few limitations on wandering once we left the town limits.
A Group of B.F. Poole’s “Junior Minute Men”
B.F. Poole (Benjamin Franklin to be exact) worked in the textile mill for eight hours, five days a week. While many of my friends’ parents chose to rest or play during their free hours Mr. Poole and his wife spent Sunday at the church, and he dedicated Saturday mornings to his young minions. None of us knew where he intended to go or what we might see—that was a delicious part of the outing. I wish I remembered more, but I can give you a few snatches.
Usually, we followed the Seaboard Coastline railroad tracks for a mile or so to escape sidewalks and traffic on the country roads. It was exciting to cross Duncan Creek on the high bridge never worrying about a coming train (I am sure Mr. Poole had checked the schedules meticulously. He certainly felt the responsibility he had taken on, even as we felt free as birds). Once we were in a low, damp forest floor, he held up his hand to stop. He had seen something that might spell danger. In a moment he motioned us to follow and pointed to the ground. Distinct footprints, not human or resembling any usual animal, tracked across the damp floor. He squatted and told us to look closely so that we would remember— the hoof prints of a pack of several wild hogs. He told us that they raided gardens and damaged fences and did not take lightly any attempts to deter their wants and needs; they had sharp tusks.
Much later as an adult I was canoeing a black water river in eastern North Carolina with an outdoorsman friend, and we startled a pack of 30 or so on the bank. With a loud snort from their leader, they crashed wildly through the underbrush. I recalled Mr. Poole’s warning and teaching.
Another time in early summer, we rode in cars to another branch of Duncan Creek, stopped and climbed down a slope to a sandy spot next to the water. He broke off a stout branch, sharpened it with his pocketknife, stuck it deeply into the sand, and proceeded to roughly vibrate it by rubbing another against it as if trying to start a fire with the friction. A minute or so later worms began to emerge from the ground around the spot. We were astounded to watch thirty-inch-long slimy worms emerge as if summoned like an Indian Cobra—we learned that they were called “nightcrawlers”. Big enough to entice a large mouth bass if you could somehow got them on the hook.
Exhausted by the hike in and as sweaty as the worms were creepy, Mr. Poole allowed us to strip down and swim in the creek. The first act of “skinny-dipping” in my life. I shall reveal nothing more.
Mr. Poole joined us in youth meetings and summer Bible-school and became more like a gracious uncle, a fine alternative to whatever home life we experienced. When not in the woods one would regularly encounter him on a bench downtown in front of a gas station, always there to talk or merely listen. For some of our older members he invited them home to learn the art of tying flies and crafting elegant bamboo rods.
I tried, in adulthood, to contact him but found that I was too late. I did not get to say thanks or tell him how grateful I was. That taught me his last lesson—do not put off the most important things in life. There in a small, insignificant village a local hero bestowed on a tiny band of budding teenagers a model of responsibility and care, a gift that we hardly realized. My fervent hope is that I was not the only one whose life bore a small portion of his character.
I do not remember any great sermons or revivals, but that little church nurtured us in the membership and community.
Amen.
Welcome to the Land of Jomeokee.
I look forward to chatting with you wherever you are and whoever you might be.
It’s as simple as this. My name is Clay, and I spent nearly forty superb years teaching, as they say, in “higher education.” I have always liked school and was fortunate to grow up in a world where education was affordable for almost anyone (in my case aided by the GI Bill). I now see clearly that converting a law degree into undergraduate teaching was the best path that I can imagine. The privilege of standing before small classes of fine, eager students and trying to open their minds to the magic of our creation and unlimited opportunity cannot be adequately communicated.
Teaching is a sacred trust, but even better is what one learns in the process. Since my mother exposed me to classical music, my first library card at six, two unbelievably fine teachers in a small textile town, being able to choose and afford a small liberal arts college degree, serving my country abroad, and earning degrees in business and law, I can now look back and appreciate the charmed journey. Because of it, I have never lost my curiosity or my interest in almost everything.
Now, my greatest hope is that I can somehow give some of that back in sharing the full range of my interests with others.
What to Expect Here
First, a weekly entry posted each Sunday on whatever happens to seem relevant and irregular entries in the topical sections listed under Guideposts.
Words that Sing is an especially important project of mine that I’ll be talking about more going forward, so stayed tuned!
Please fully read the About section of the blog. It gives a fuller picture of who we are and what we care about.
Lest I forget, I am compelled to reveal one of the things we are MOST passionate about: The Table. Food, wine, and entertaining with flowers and candlelight is an important ritual of presence for us. Around the table, we enjoy a slower pace where we can reflect on the day, allowing the conversation to flow as naturally as the wine. It is a quiet celebration of the everyday moments that make up our lives and a practice that nourishes our bodies and souls. We hope to share some of our dinners with you through pictures, words and occasionally a video or two.
What Led Me Here
Well, I thought you’d never ask.
Writing, whether through essay or email, has always been a place where I have felt most at home. An essential part of my life, even more so since retirement. Yes, practically speaking, I have more time to dedicate to the process, but it's also been therapeutic, giving me a space to sort the myriad of thoughts that flow in and out of my mind.
Writing has always been my way of getting to the heart of things, as I feel that the right words chosen carefully are the most direct path to understanding and authentic connection. Yet I also know the precision I crave is often elusive—a truth a friend captured beautifully when he quoted the words of a philosopher: “There are no words, but there are only words.”
There is no denying it; the writer’s garret gets a bit lonely at times, and my care for community and communication moves beyond the page. They are in the real world of interaction. These reflections, and my desire to combine writing with connecting to a wider audience, led me to the conclusion that a website would allow me to bring together the things I care about most these days: reflective writing, meaningful communication, and a sense of community.
My Morning Practice
For the last several months, my day begins with a quiet hour somewhere around 5 or 6. I have found a special piece of music that helps me begin in a good place. It is called “Hymn to a Blue Hour” by the American composer John Mackey. I have learned that blue hour is the period between dawn and the arrival of fuller light before sunrise. If you rise early and sit through it, you might experience a wholly new awakening. For me, it is a time to push away the distracting images of the rational brain and allow space for my mind to wander as it will. I have experienced magical moments and occasionally something that seems “profound.” Take this as you will, but I have truly benefitted from the “practice.”
Slowing Down
My days are less prone to profane thoughts and words. I have slowed everything down. I hardly ever fret at stop lights, and I follow all speed limits as the rest of the traffic roars over, under, around, and through the frantic need to get from here to there. I have, step by step, retreated from exposing myself to media outlets that constantly remind me how bad things are and how little control I have over the things that are being done to, and by, us.
I read more (preferring books purchased from small independent stores), listen (truly listen) to more music, watch less video, and spend time with friends around the table and the hearth. (A confession: I talk too much and listen not nearly enough—a personality trait that I am beginning to studiously work on.)
Looking Inward and Outward
It would serve us all well to look inside in order to better understand ourselves and our interactions with others and to look outside and spend more time in the natural world. The “philosopher” Yogi Berra famously said, “You can see a lot just by looking.”
Then, share some of your joy with others.
Please know—this is not “instruction.” I claim no truth. Just trying to open us all to higher possibilities. We have had enough shouting and gesturing, and somehow believing that our chosen way is better than theirs. We must, and we can do better.
A Parting Wish
Again, it delights me to welcome you to the land of Jomeokee (the small mountain at the top of the page). If it brings you even a small portion of the joy that it has given me, I have succeeded.
Come back again if you will, just to hear what might be going on.
In goodwill,
Clay