Family journey of redemption through Mom

“What a long strange trip its been,” so the song goes by the Grateful Dead, my favorite, live rock ‘n’ roll band. They were good when they were good, but, oh my, they were really bad when they were bad. That didn’t happen often, but when it did, “Katie, bar the door!”

I’ve been thinking of this phrase a lot lately with Mother’s Day coming and going; remembering my mom. The fractured relationship we shared based on my own driving selfishness. My mom was a hero in so many ways. Her life was a huge challenge. She was married to my celebrated dad for more than two decades before he decided to leave and marry another. Pop was to remarry my mom again before divorcing her yet again. Pop was to marry four times over the course of his life. Mom was to never marry again. She was a one-man woman, as they say.

When my mom passed more than a decade ago, we did not have a good relationship. She tried, but I rebuffed her time and time again. At her death-bed, though, I was able to offer some form of comfort, perhaps, to aid her release from this material world. She turned to me with those lovely brown eyes, as she lay in that hospital in Reno, Nevada, and I quietly told her it was OK to go; that she was loved and surrounded by her three sons.  She adored my two brothers, as she should have, because they were not as selfish as I, and, indeed, they had that special bond that exists between a mother and a son.

I whispered that she was the greatest mom the world had ever witnessed. She smiled and, I swear, she nodded and  then quietly passed.

It must be noted that my brothers and I did not see eye-to-eye during this turbulent time of loss. They did tolerate my oftentimes bouts of immaturity but, obviously, did not entirely trust my intentions or behaviors.

Then, 10 years passed and my dad got lung cancer. Now, he was going to leave us. I knew instantly that I had a chance to do better; to love as is and not want for anything. He was my dad and I loved him just like mom. I prayed to my God to help me be of service to my dad, his wife and my brothers and their family. I prayed to be a support for my wife and two kids, who adored my dad; their grandfather. I prayed and prayed and prayed. It worked.

I behaved like a gentleman. I was better. One day in pop’s hospital room, we were sitting side-by-side in those awful hospital chairs they wheel in for family.  Just me and pop, alone, quiet. He gently sighed and put his hand in mine, not to hold, but just on top, palm down, cupped, almost like a child.

“I love you,” he said. “You, too,” I replied back. “I’m going to beat this thing,” he continued, his voice getting stronger. “And we are going to be back on that course playing golf.”

He died a few days later.

This time, my brothers, family and friends were united. This time, I had acted like a man and it was all because of my mother, Nancy Mygatt Whitmore; a woman of character and  sensitivity. In fact, the best mother this world has ever witnessed. Godspeed, Mom, I couldn’t have done this without you.

 

 

Press must have the freedom to do its job

The press, media, or just journalists in general, can be the most annoying, irritating, frustrating tick-like substance I’ve ever experienced in my whole life. I lower my head in disgust and wonder “what has this world come to?” That is most assuredly no lie. The famous test pilot, Chuck Yeager, referred to the press as “root-weevils” in the historic film, “The Right Stuff.”

However, and this is a big however, the press, media, or just journalists in general, are essential to keeping this country free. And you can take that to the bank, as Robert Blake used to utter in his TV show, “Baretta.”

There was a time when we, Americans, knew the importance of a free press. We defended their right to be free; to print or broadcast what they believed to be important. We supported that. It seems like we don’t anymore. It seems like we blame everything on the press and not on ourselves. The press simply reports on what we do, if they do their job right. Sometimes they don’t do their job right.  But who does their job right all the time? I certainly don’t. We can all do better, and we must do better.

I need to remember what I’m writing here. I need to remember this each and every day because there are moments – we all have them – when we just don’t know anymore. Is what we are doing the right thing or the wrong thing? The answer is simple: do what’s right and true to you and you won’t fail. You might fail others, but you won’t fail yourself.  Anyways, as Bob Dylan once wrote: “There is no success like failure and failure is no success at all.”

Now, you might be asking yourself what does any of this have to do with the price of tea in China? Nothing and everything. What the hell is this guy talking about?

Well, here’s the deal: As much as the press makes my backside crave sour buttermilk. I will defend its right to make my backside crave sour buttermilk – every chance I get. This country is built on the notion that we must allow a free, robust press that looks at all of us with a critical eye. Our nation depends on it.

One of our founding fathers, Thomas Jefferson, put it this way back in 1787 to Mr. Edward Carrington: “The basis of our governments being the opinion of the people, the very first object should be to keep that right; and were it left to me to decide whether we should have a government without newspapers or newspapers without a government, I should not hesitate a moment to prefer the latter. But I should mean that every man should receive those papers and be capable of reading them.” Amen!

By the way, that last sentence is the most important of the thought: “…every man should receive those papers and be capable of reading them.” We all need to get smarter. We all need to get more involved. We have to.

The reason I got a bug up my backside about this tonight and wanted to share with you these tedious thoughts was because too many of our journalists are being threatened with jail for doing their job.  I was reminded of that earlier this morning when I read a Los Angeles Times guest editorial by former New York Times’ reporter Judith Miller, who spent 85 days in a Virgina jail protecting her sources. She was writing about another journalist, who broke a story regarding the horrific shooting in the Colorado movie theater. The other journalist, Jana Winter of Fox News, also is being threatened with jail for protecting her sources.

Reporters doing their job should be applauded not jailed. Yes, there are times when the press steps on itself, and then they should be held accountable and face the consequences.  But those times must be few and they must be far between. Our freedom depends on it. Sorry for the lengthy diatribe. It’s late and I’m tired. Thanks for the visit.

Talk soon.

 

 

 

 

True rock guitarist, icon has passed…

There’s an old saying that if you remember the 60s, you didn’t live through them. Well, I don’t know about that, but I can tell you as a young, confused guitar-playing fart, there was one guitarist who inspired: Alvin Lee.

Alvin Lee burst on to the world stage at Woodstock in 1969, with his searing rendition of “I’m going home.” He was a rock star in every sense of the word, even though he didn’t want to be a rock star. He just wanted to be a musician, he had repeatedly said down through the years. Interesting how life doesn’t always turn out the way any of us planned.

Graham Alvin Lee died this past Wednesday, March 6, 2013, in Spain after complications marred a routine surgery. He was 68.

This column, this day, is a tribute to Mr. Lee, lead guitarist for Ten Years After.

I was 19-years old when I first became aware of Ten Years After and Alvin Lee. I had been screwing around with the guitar since about 15. I had a really nice guitar, a Guild steel-string beauty. In fact, I still have it, and sometimes bring it out to play a little bit for my kids, who pester me to do so.

I was never any good on the guitar because I refused to do the necessary work. I was, however, in a couple of rock ‘n’ roll bands because of an innate ability to scratch out silly stuff on paper, later to be put to music.

When I saw and heard Alvin Lee play guitar, I knew then I would never be a competent guitar player. I was, instead, going to be a fan, and that suited me just fine.

After Woodstock, Lee and Ten Years After came to San Francisco and played a famous venue of the times, Winterland. I hustled off to see the show with a long-time confident of mine, who was a true guitar hero. This friend could play.  Actually, and although adept at the guitar, I never like his songs because they were too confusing. Too advanced perhaps.

But Alvin Lee was a rock ‘n’ roll guitar player – true blue. His concert at Winterland was one of the best shows I ever saw. The closest to his performance has to be the Jerry Garcia-led Grateful Dead of that same time frame – when they were on – and Van Morrison, when he was on. I saw them and many more at the Fillmore and/or Winterland. I was roaming the streets of San Fran and the music was literally busting out of the seams.

The night I saw Ten Years After was electric, pardon the pun. Lee was on fire. He had just come from his big Woodstock showing. The documentary of the same name had just been released and Ten Years After had gone from the small-club circuit to the arena circuit. Lee was to say later this transition actually destroyed the band because they became a jukebox of sorts, playing what the audience had come to expect – hit after hit, ending always with “I’m going home.”

That all may be true. And I’m sorry for that. Fame and money can screw a person up. That’s for sure. I know a little about this because my dad was a bit of a star, although as an actor. I saw first hand the darker side of fame. But that’s another story.

As a young fart-pusher, Alvin Lee was an icon to me. When his Winterland performance finally came to an end after several encores, and the four-man group hustled off the stage, a single spotlight rested on his red guitar, which was still in full feed-back mode. Show biz all the way.

I now this sounds a bit silly, but after the realization that I would never be a competent guitar player, I did try to improve and found myself getting better.

That, it seems to me, is a true example of excellence.  When the best of the best lifts the rests of us up to heights unattainable of our own accord. The artist catapults us to another dimension by way of his hard work and talent. Such a gift. Alvin Lee did that exact thing for me. I will always be grateful for his artistry.

Alvin Lee has left us but his music lives on. I will always listen to “I’m going home” as I run my daily four miles. Thank you, sir.

Alvin Lee, by the way, is survived by a wife and a daughter. My thoughts and prayers go out to them. May God bless you and keep you safe and sound.

Talk soon.

Voting is a fundemental truth…

There can be no other way to look at it: Voting is the ultimate truth when it comes to a democratic republic. So many people decry the institution of the vote. They say it is pointless. The nation will never change because we vote. Such hogwash!

This Tuesday, March 5, is another chance to cast your commitment to this Democracy. Most will not. They will go about their business, and not for a moment dwell on the fact that voting is what this country is all about.

And to make it more curious, it is these non-voting folks who complain the loudest. Everything is wrong. Nothing is right. On and on and on. It never stops. These are the same people who listen to the raving lunatics on talk radio. In fact, they are the ones that call in to the fanatics. Now, it’s true not everybody that listens or participates in talk radio is like that, but many of them do fall into this category.

My father used to call it lip-farting, pardon my French.

I remember a few years back I headed across this great nation to take a job at a Midwest newspaper. I had the misfortune of listening to talk radio for hours on end in the middle of the isolated desert. I couldn’t believe my ears. Such nonsense. I was sad for the state of America, until I realized yet again that this was not our country. It was just one section.

Our country, yours and mine, is terrific. It has its problems, and it may not be in the best shape right now, but it has every opportunity to regain that shape of excellence. We have to do it together.

This is not taking for granted our blessings we have here, which are many, or that we’re not a great nation. We are. We just can be so much better. To accomplish this, as I just said, we all need to get involved. We need to recommit ourselves to the principal of this nation that we are a society by the people, of the people and for the people. That’s a paraphrase, I know, but what the hell. You can’t blame a guy for doing his best.

I feel really grateful to be an American. I do love this country. It has afforded me a truly great life. Yes, life does get busy and there is confusion and challenges that sometimes don’t look like they have any clarity or solution. But you keep moving forward and by doing so, everything gets better. Something about the momentum that creates a clear mind and soul that finds the right solutions.

And at a bare minimum, all we have to do to keep this country moving forward is to vote. Yet more than half of this country won’t. And that’s even after we have made it even easier to cast your ballot.  You don’t even have to leave your home anymore, if your don’t want to.

I do. I leave my home to vote. I go to the ballot box and cast my vote. I mark the ballot and place it in the box. I wear my sticker “I voted” proudly on my lapel.

It is my fundamental truth. Vote this Tuesday. Please. We need everybody to keep us safe, sane and, most certainly, free.

Talk soon.

 

 

 

 

Coloring outside the lines…

An old friend of mine that I haven’t seen in years once remarked to me: “You’re the kind of person that colors outside the lines.” Herumph! I thought to myself. What is he talking about?

Well, it turns out he’s right. I have spent most of my life living on impulse, driven by the grouch or the inspiration. Neither one of those thing have been very helpful down through the years. I had to change and I did. Nowadays, I don’t respond that way. Make no mistake about it.

Today is about pause; wait 24 hours before deciding. Perhaps ask for a little spiritual guidance. Maybe talk with another before taking the leap. But waiting and listening is the key to a correct decision. And as a result of that, most decisions today are pretty sound.

Now, you might be asking what this has to do with the price of tea in China? Absolutely nothing. I don’t even like tea. Each and every morning, I have a large dark-roast coffee with four shots of espresso.

What a way to start the day, and it lasts all day. Believe it or not. Now there was a time when I used to drink energy shots during the day, especially before I exercised. I stopped that, thank God. All the energy shots gave me were kidney stones and that’s one helluva nightmare. Something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

But I’m getting off the beaten path, which is lined with noisy neighbors. Just kidding. My neighbors are terrific. I just like the alliteration.

But, putting all seriousness aside, I think it’s important to look at your past. Not live in it, but look at it, and be grateful for all that did or did not happen.

I’ve written about this before, but to give it some more illumination, take a look at your relationship with your parents. Better yet, let’s take a look at my relationship with my parents. You lucky dog, you. I know this is rather self-indulgent, but I paid for my own gas, as someone once muttered.

I did not have a good relationship with my Mom. My fault. Not hers. I was too hung up on “my rights.” What she should be doing for me, instead, obviously, of what I should be doing for her. Result: Scratchy relationship that was not mended when she died. Not good. That stuff stays with you, like a pessimistic echo.

Now, Pop was a different story. We fought like cats and dogs for the better part of his life, but I didn’t want to repeat how I left it with my mother. So, I began to love Pop just the way he was, which was really great. He made it easy to love him. And when he passed, all was right with the world. Herein lies the lesson: It’s up to the kids to love the parents, regardless. The world just works better that way. And that, dear friends, is coloring inside the lines.

Talk soon.

‘Sometime ago black teeth screamed for simple peace’

I wrote the above line to a poem in the late 60s when I was young and even more stupid than I am now. I thought I was somewhat of a genius poet. More delusion than anything else.

Actually, life has given me a rule book that I pretty much follow. This rule book has been born out of experience built over the last 62 years. Sometimes down. Sometimes up. But never in the middle, where mediocrity lives like a clinging shadow. Life has been good to me.

Way back when, though, I was more a ball in a pinball machine  bouncing from one side to the next, with no rhyme or reason. I fancied myself a guitar-playing songwriter, which really was more show than discipline, work or talent.

I was running the streets of San Francisco and even had a very short stint in two rock ‘n’ roll bands. One was called “Hot Poop” and had only one live performance in Bangalore, India, of all places.

I was supposed to be the lead singer. Only problem was I can’t sing and I had no idea of the lyrics to any of the songs.  The musicians were quite good. The rest was a disaster.

Then, there was this band, “Velveeta, The American Cheese Band.” Now that was a band. We even did a demo for a record producer in Hollywood, whose claim to fame was producing the guitar-driven band, “The Ventures.” The only really good thing about that band was the name, which was given to us by the lead guitarist’s best friend.

We were offered a chance to go into the studio but the core of the band wanted to go live in Mill Valley, Calif., and mellow out. I thought that was a bunch of crap, to say the least, so I grabbed my backpack and headed back to college.

Now, why am I sharing this with you today. As one gets older we begin to reminisce. Take stock of what has been, is, and will be. My life has been colorful, to say the least. I have such good fortune, being born into a well-to-do family, and then falling down with my own selfish troubles, only to come back strong with a new sober life. I wouldn’t change one minute of this journey. It has been surprising, unpredictable and exciting. I couldn’t have asked for a better ride.

One last thing about the poem in the headline. It was published in a college poetry publication and, if I remember correctly, which is entirely possible I don’t, it went something like:

“Sometime ago black teeth screamed for simple peace;

 a bus ride takes us to the next stop where blind men

offer trinkets and directions to the men’s room.

I am lost as always with a firm grip on my companion’s

confusion as she eyes me with contempt.

She is darkness and light.

Walking away, she brushes by me as if I have leprosy. I

know that’s not so, but the hanging clouds are a reminder

I’m just a fond memory to most folks.

The bus coughs and spits exhaust as it winds up a

rocky slope to the next stop – waiting there patiently is a

hanging sign, creaking back and forth in the dusty wind.

It reads: Peace is Unavailable.

Talk soon. 

Night sometimes does not bring slumber

Tired tonight. Bones are weary. Just can’t seem to get to sleep. Most nights I sleep like a baby, but not tonight. So, what do you do?

I lay in bed and try to sleep, which just causes my body to rebel and take off like a rocket. I get up and read. That just bores me. My eyelids feel like they are riveted to my forehead. Strange visual, I know, but, oh, so true.

I still try to force my self to sleep, which drives me even more insane. I toss and turn, thinking the position matters. It don’t. I try to engage in relaxation exercises by slowing down my breathing. I just breathe faster. I try to meditate. You know, clear the mind: Ooooooome. That just drives me deeper into the loony bin..

I think about watching television but that idea revolts me. TV is pretty crappy nowadays, especially late at night. Decades ago I used to stay up all hours in the morning, drinking a bit too much, and watching late night, early morning TV. This was a time when television actually signed off for the day and that strange alien-like symbol would come on the screen and buzz.

The late-night movies were usually sponsored by a car dealer. When I was roaming the streets of Northern California there was this guy selling cars, I think his name was Jay something. He was selling Dodges, I believe, and his demeanor was calm, cool and collected. I even wrote a very bad one-man show and incorporated Jay into the show.

Really, the show was really bad. My father, who knew something about theater having been a successful actor in his day, said the show I did was “incredible because I had the guts to do it.”

Sleep didn’t come easy in those days either. Well, it did sometimes because of the drinking. Don’t get excited. I haven’t had any alcohol for three-and-half decades. But there was a time I did use it to sleep. But that was a long time ago.

Now, today, tonight, what do you or I do? I walk. That’s right I walk for as long as it takes to get the back of my knees to finally relax. I walk around my bedroom. Sometimes I walk outside. Sometimes on my treadmill in my garage. And sometimes I walk around my living room, into my study and through the kitchen. I do this for as long as it takes. Then, thank God, sleep does come; gently, quietly and peacefully. Sleep comes, and I say “thank you” the next morning.

There is nothing finer that to close your eyes at night only to open them hours later as the sun creeps in through the window. There is nothing finer. I am going to try now to go to sleep. If I fail yet again, I always have the walk.

Talk soon.