Musings

Sad Passings

I walk my dog, Charlie every morning. We walk a mile or two; sometimes three or four. I pretend I do it because it's good for him, which it is, but it also helps to keep me  alive and for the most part, healthy.

Urban walking in Covington is always interesting. Lovely old homes, sometimes converted to offices, dogs of all shapes and sizes, this time of year (spring) flowering trees...pink and purple tulip magnolias, soft pink weeping cherries and the ubiqitous Bradford Pears line the streets.

There is also a large cross section of character actors walking about. Construction workers in multi colored protective hats, folks of Appalaichan descent (Purdy Dawg) business men and women, wearing suits and a grim, impatient expression, retired folks sidewalk supervising construction workers, African Americans young and old, (what a gulf between the two) young, sometimes very young mothers pushing strollers, and youngsters, curious about me, about the dog, about the trees, about everything.

But this writing is about one man I know in my mind as "The Urban Imam".

During my walks, I make it a habit to speak to everyone that passes by. Normally a "good morning" or a "How ya doin'" or a "hey"; an innocuos greeting, acknowledging that were both on the planet, and isn't that great!!!

In return, I get a greeting, or a nod with a smile, or a snub. I call a snub an act where someone not only ignores you, but turns their head away and won't look at you no matter what.

It should come as no surprise that the pleasnt responders make me feel good, while the snubbers make me want to challenge them with remarks like "hey. man, what did I ever do to you?" or "what's your problem?"

It's a dance that I do in my brain, and some folks dance with me better than others. It's a matter of knowing the steps, and hearing the music.

But the "Urban Imam" wrenches my soul more than most.

 He walks from the South, about 8:30 or earlier. (It seems whatever time I'm walking, we cross paths) His gait is strong, his posture perfect. He wears a dark, inexpensive sport coat and slacks, and a white dress shirt buttoned to the collar, with no tie. He is a moderately slight black man, not too skinny, but not fat at all. His eyes protrude just short of pop-eyed or bug-eyed. They are deep brown, but burn with a fire, and deep mistrust. His goatee is white and narrow, about three inches long and perfectly groomed. He wears a white turban somewhat faded with age. The turban is not of the tall variety, but squatter. It encircles his head, and has a small dome-like surface on the top. I suppose there is a name for this sort of turban, but my sad lack of knowledge about the Islamic culture means the description I made will have to do, for now.

The first time we passed, I shortened up the leash on Charlie, as I always do when passing some one and I smiled and said "good morning". He looked at me with his fire-breathing eyes, moved on, and said nothing. There was no expressioin of dislike, no disdain, just eye contact and moving on. Different from a snub, there was silent acknowledgment of existence, but then a moving on. That was the first time.

After the first time, there were several passings, all exactly the same. "good morning." Nothing.

 "Good morning" Nothing.

"Good morning" Nothing.

"Good morning" Nothing.

Maybe ten or more times.

I wanted to say to him "what's your name"? Are you Muslim? Would you like to stop for coffee?

My name's Al, this is Charlie, isn't it a great day?

But since all I recieved were grim lips and a pulsing stare, I had to let it go.

But there are other things I would say to him, if we ever had a chance to talk at length. Things like "I don't know much about the Muslim religion, what can you tell me? (Of course he may not even be Muslim, I'm just going by his Turban. He could be Sikh, or another sect altogether...who knows?)

There is just something about the guy. For some reason his "vibes" reach me more than most of the people I see daily on the street. He intrigues me more than the older women on a bus stop bench the other day yelling the words "South Viet Nam" and "these are the Goddamned United Staes of America!" I smiled and waved to her, and received a rather intense stare.

I wish, as I am writing this, that I could say I ran into the "Urban Imam" in line at the post office, that we exchange pleasantries, and agree to meet for lunch. I'm afraid that will never be. For now, when he sees me coming down the sidewalk, he crosses the street to avoid my good morning greeting. I miss the challenge of his eyes that bore into my spirit, and the purposeful ignoring of my greeting.

Whenever I am curious about something, but have no way to resolve the curiosity, I make up questions in my head. Does he hate me because I'm white? (If so it mus be a sad world for him, surrounded by Caucasions.) Is he afraid of my dog? (I always keep close by my side when others are near, and he is obviously no threat) Do I represent infidels to him? Because I am open and friendly, does he interpret that as coming on to him? What the hell happened to him to make him so distrustful?

I wish him well, and during meditations will send positive energy his way. I woulld tell him that we are all travellers on the same ship, and we should be pleasant to one another simply because it makes us feel better. And then I would quote the only passage from the Bible that makes any sense to me. "God is love, and he who abides in love abides in God, and God in him."

Fog Filtered sunlight plays on the Ohio

Melancholia and the River

Some days in the fall, I allow myself to indulge in more melancholia than a sixties folk song. (Barbree Allen comes to mind). A whispered regret of triumphs lost, the unabiding sadness for friends and family that, as Dylan Thomas said, ”are no longer whinnying with us.”, the silence when an unspoken word should have been said, the violence of an angry word when silence would have been the better course; the idea being to bring them all together in one helium memory balloon and let them disappear into the
stratosphere.

An overcast day, with a dreary cold rain threatening, opened those floodgates of memory as my dog Charlie Max (eighty pounds of black and white Bernese and Border Colley mix) and I prepared for our morning walk through Covington. Little did we know that the morning would turn from purgative melancholia to grim.

We walked from the corner of Greenup and Third up to Eleventh Street , turned right, and crossed the Eleventh Street Bridge, over some railroad tracks. I saw that the tracks, as so many people, curved away from the twin domes of a church. Moving on, just past the bridge, I was greeted by a life sized statue of a stylized bright white Unicorn in the front yard of one of Covington’s lovely old homes, bringing artistic reality to myth.

We turned right again, and began our circling back to Third. I guess the sirens started about Fifth or Sixth.

Charlie and I, following the siren sound, headed down Madison to the circle where the old Covington Landing pylons stand naked in the river. We followed the floodwall to the suspension bridge, and there we saw what had prompted the sirens.

Two men in a small boat with an outboard motor had found a person floating in the river.

I saw the fire rescue boat that moors at the old Mike Fink restaurant release its moorings and head for the small craft. After a short struggle the emergency personnel on the boat got the body on board, and secured it to a blue board made for that purpose.

I at once felt bad for gawking, but at the same time transfixed to the spot as I watched the EMT’s perform CPR as they headed back to the Fink. Waiting for them in the Fink’s parking lot and on the elevated area above were three large fire trucks, one boxy EMT unit truck, a fire chief’s wagon/suv.

The rescue boat returned to re-moor at the Fink, where several firemen in their dark blue uniforms prepared to raise the person from the boat. As an observer from a distance, there was no way of knowing if the person was alive or dead, male or female, old or young. There was just a sense of tragedy, while hoping for the best. The rescue group, working in well trained unison, took the body from the boat, carried it through the Fink, and lifted the person on the stiff board onto a waiting gurney and into the boxy EMT ambulance.

As the ambulance pulled away, my melancholia flew with it, replaced by witnessing a very real human drama. There was both a sense of helplessness and hopefulness as the cadre of trucks and cars and boats headed for their holding places, waiting for the next emergency.

Charlie and I returned to our Third Street Condo. He had a biscuit, and I had a cup of tea while I thought about the river, and its nature that is both

Beauty and Beast.

Cars were Cars, but so much more.

In an unabashed celebration of nostalgia, Newport Kentucky held a classic car show one Sunday in August 2010. They were all there. The Goats (GTO'S) Vettes, Chargers, Super Sports, Model A's, Trucks, even old busses. But it was more than just a celebration of rubber and steel. The cars from the fifties, sixties, and in some cases seventies served as a memory bank of a time when cars reflected the rugged individualism of the American People. READ MORE

The War on Drugs Creates Crime and Criminals

I always enjoy the feeling of not being alone in the world. I got a lot of support for this musing by "googling" Law Enforcement's Take on the War On Drugs. You can see what's there. In the meantime you cacn read more of this musing by clicking here.

Spring Pride

Comments about photos in the November Thirteenth Exhibit

Such a wonderful evening! Friends and supporters poured through the doors. It's great to have one of these affairs so frieinds can gather on an evening, renew acquaintences, and have a good time.

My thanks to Michael Wilger, who owns the gallery, for making space and taking time to help me show off my "wares".

And thanks, too, to Debbie Mann who hasd been so supportive through this process.(Read More)

July 27, 2009 Findlay Market and Baby Steps

The large banner across the top of the stall read “Carlos and Rosa’s Garden”. It was a small stand. A few greens. Some squash. Maybe a few flowers. I would have moved along, passing it without a thought. But barker-like Sarah Saheb’s (sa-HEEB) voice caught my ear. Read more...

July 20, 2009 Presidential Succession

Sometimes questions go off in my mind for no reason. The other day I was ruminating with myself (no, that's not dirty) about the order of succession if the President should die in office, and then the vice president, then the Speaker of the House etc. So I looked it up in WikiAnswers. Here is the answer:

Under the Presidential Succession Act of 1947, if both the President and the Vice President die, then the Speak of the House of Representatives assumes the Presidency. The line of succession continues, in case of the Speaker's death, and so on, as follows:

President pro tempore of the Senate Secretary of State Secretary of the Treasury Secretary of Defense Attorney General Secretary of the Interior Secretary of Agriculture Secretary of Commerce Secretary of Labor Secretary of Health and Human Services Secretary of Housing and Urban Development Secretary of Transportation Secretary of Energy Secretary of Education Secretary of Veterans Affairs Secretary of Homeland Security

It brought to mind Alexander Haig (Regan's Secretary of State) who, after Regan was shot, said ""As of now, I am in control, here, at the White House." Sorry Alexander.

July 25, 2009: Air Show, America, and Ambivalence

Thought I would take a stab at this, conversational style. Last Sunday Linda and I went to the Dayton Air Show. I sort of dragged Linda along, reluctantly, but that reluctance disappeared with the first roud of precision flying. I took a few breaks from taking pictures and looked over at her, and saw the entranced look on her face. She was hooked immediately. As was I. The intricacies of flying, parachuting, and other "flights of fancy" involved all of the senses except taste. READ MORE

July 8, 2009

I am sitting here, at the keyboard, and my mind’s ear is hearing Souza Marches; my mind’s eye is seeing balloons reaching for the sky and lengthy parades filled with vintage cars, all convertibles, with swimsuited ladies holding up signs saying “LIVE TODAY, LIVE TODAY” ...read more