The power of Folk

I spent a couple of days in Louisville, Kentucky on the banks of the Ohio river a few years back while assisting friends during an Ironman event. I can remember reading the signage, detailing how they marched slaves down the street where I was walking, newly auctioned off to unknown masters. Chained, shackled and boarded on boats destined for the deep South. Many did not make it to their final destinations due to illness, most likely caused by the extreme emotional stress they were placed under.
This was where the phrase, “Sold down the river” came from.

It hit me hard as I began to imagine entire families and relationships being dismantled exactly where I stood. There is nothing like the power of place to deliver the gut-punch of reality. I am not one for outward displays of emotion but the tears fell. I could feel the suffering still hanging in the air. The experience took me by complete surprise.

Three years ago Patty Griffin began to work with this song about the underground railroad. Of slaves escaping, inspired by something Toni Morrison had written in her book, Beloved. The lyrics went through several transformations before it reached its final incarnation with the help of Robert Plant who also lent his voice and power to this song.

"I had the song in an odd shape and couldn't really figure out how to use it," she says. "He came in and arranged it so that it became what it is. He came up with the tempo and the mood on it."

It had impact for me on this Easter Sunday evening as I drove home from my solo meal of etouffee at a local creole hangout. Feeling a little wistful, missing my own people, this beautifully haunting song came over the radio.

It has been my experience that the best songs and stories need so few words to convey the meaning and have impact. When it is crafted as gorgeously as this, I am inspired to write lyrics that are spare and honest.
The simplicity and depth of emotion is why I love the art form of Folk and American music so much.

Meet me in the evening, where the river is low
Meet me on the waters of the Ohio
No lines, no lines, the river is a river, not a line
My blood is the water and it's darker and deeper than time

If the hounds are howling, then you cannot hide
My friend, I will meet you on the other side
No lines, no lines, the river is a river, not a line
My love is the water and it's stronger and deeper than time

Meet me 'neath the moon, under the singing tree
If you are the first, stay there and wait for me
If no one comes by morning and the sun is a-rising red
If no one comes by morning, please forgive me, my friend
For I am dead

I'm going to start my own line of greeting cards

Starting with Valentines day.


Knock, knock motherfuckers!

Who's there?

The Valentines day possum!



Exactly.

“That’s when I knew you’d be good in the world.”

If there was ever a photo that captures who I am for all time, it is the picture above. Confident, strong, half wild. An accomplished hand-fisher, snake catcher and girl of the woods already. I was 11 years of age and still getting used to having to wear shirts in the summertime. I am standing there covered in mud and catfish grime after a two and a half hour struggle with a mighty warrior who tested all I knew about nature, and myself up to that point.

The rod and the 5 pound test-line were way too light. I knew when I saw that first sunlit fin flash under the surface of the swirling water, the powerful pull on the other end of that hook was not a turtle. I can still feel my heart getting ready to beat out of my chest at that moment, knowing that it was going to take all the smarts I had to land this one. Too much tension and the line or pole would break. Not enough tension and he would sever that line himself.

The struggle was on. I was focused like never before and we fought until almost dark. I would play him and let him out, play him and let him out… over and over as I ran along the banks of the pond, staying with him. Making sure he was exhausted before I could even think about bringing him in. When it was time, I waded into the water to get him. I was taking no chances until I had him safely on the stringer.

I had caught plenty of fish up to that point. Knew how to skin and fillet my catches and filled the freezer with them. But this was new territory. This was going to be hard. And from that time, I intimately knew what it was to have complete respect, gratitude and sorrow for the animals that become your food. I did a lot of growing up on this day.

Up until now, I felt the day was uniquely mine. I had no idea how this had impacted my father until I saw this experience come to life in the pages of his latest book, Ruined Days.

When I got to page 109, the tears started to roll...

——————————————————————————————————————————

Reno Pete, in part of the final letter to his son with instruction on how to take new information on the JFK assassination public and profit from it.

"You decide if you are up to it. I know you are. If there’s anything to life after death I’m behind you and smiling at you all the way. I always loved you. Believe me I’de of taken your mom’s place if I could of. I know that was our sticking point. It was crazy hard to go on after that. Crazy hard. Revenge didn’t even make a little dent in it. It hurt us all to see you, what it did. If you do this you will sure enough ruin some days, and the money will set you up. I think you can do it or I’d never put it out there for you. You’re a little different than I was, more like Cobb maybe.

Remember how you played that bigass catfish? Took you half the day. That took patience, strategy, smarts and stamina. Especially for a little boy your size and age then. That’s when I knew you’d be good in the world. Little light line (5lb test?) big fish 14lbs. Remember how good that was on the grill? We could see you were proud, deserved to be, we were to. Your mom thought that was the best catfish we ever had. Salt, pepper, lemon. Those were good days. Get em while you can. I know you don’t think so right now but good days will be there for you again.

Sorry to bail the way I have by now. (If your reading this I have.) Fucking drs keep you going like the battery bunny. Keeps their paychecks coming. Well, that’s it. You only need to read more if you’re going for it. If you do, play it like a 14lb catfish on a 5lb test. Carefully. Patiently. Use violence only if you have to (you’ll know) and then quickly and out. It’s a tool. Use it when they balk or lie or try to play you. Also use it to piss them off. When someone is angry they don’t think right. Pistol whip a man and you’ll piss him off but you’ll scare him to, he will know your for real. Be sneaky and chickenshit, not frontal assault. I know you guys bulled your way in the middle east, but sneaky pays off.

Travis folded the papers–blue-lined notebook paper torn from a wire bound school type notebook–and poured the rest of the coffee. Damn. Reno remembered that catfish. It had taken half a day to land that sucker. Travis was not about to lose it. It bent the light pan-fish rod double at times. He’d only been dimly aware that his father was there the whole time, now and then offering quiet advice, but not getting in the way. That night they’d cooked catfish steaks. Cobb and Vanita were there. His mom and dad. Some friends of theirs with kids his age. It had been a good time. A relaxed time.”

From the book: Ruined Days by Guinotte Wise

Dirty Kanza registration happens tomorrow at 8:00 AM, 1.9.16

It's that time again. Tomorrow morning at 8:00, registration opens for the Dirty Kanza 200 and 100. Everyone from the lone first-time cyclist to entire teams of road-hardened gravel pelotons are setting their alarms for Saturday morning to be among the first in line to register on bikereg.com.

For the last three years, the buzz has been that it would sell out in the first hour. It hasn't happened yet. It takes a day or two before selling out, but 2016 may change all of this. If the wide variety of gravel rigs out there being offered by every bike shop in the universe is any indication, the popularity of gravel "grinding" is doing nothing but continue to grow.
And one of the top gravel events going is the Dirty Kanza. People are even starting to come from other countries for a chance to do this Flint Hills monster. Lucky for me, the heart of all this gravel goodness is only 108 miles directly southwest of Kansas City on I-35.

As always, the town of Emporia will celebrate all things cycling for a few days on the first weekend of June, rolling out the red carpet. The town's folk will show up in force. They are open and friendly in a way that you just don't see these days... anywhere. They will tell you they are glad you are there and mean it. It is kind of amazing and is the final part of the alchemy that keeps me coming back.

I wasn't sure how I was going to feel about the winter gravel season this year, but that familiar rush of joy of having goals (looser... as in not crushing) and contact with people who I have come to call my friends over these last three years, started to sweep over me. Messages began to filter in as I got in gear with hotel arrangements, sticker shock stopping me momentarily after finding the Best Western "Hospitality" House had almost tripled it's rates for the event. After a few more unsuccessful calls, I remembered to start breathing again after a friend reached out, offering his family's Emporia home to three of my Boulevard teammates and myself.

So... no more floating around in the strange early January doldrums... wondering about the direction of winter training. I'm committed. I start building the 2016 season tomorrow. All that is left to do is to make sure my fingers are on the keyboard at 8:00 AM.

http://www.dirtykanza200.com/registration/