Tears and the Parthenon
In July of 2001, we took a trip to Europe that carried us through Italy and Greece. There were six of us, including my family, my brother Tim and my Mom. We were part of a tour group that started in Rome, traveled to Florence and Venice before taking a ferry across the Adriatic Sea to Greece.
I had already spent three weeks in late June traveling across China in an exhausting but life-changing journey that left me emotional, weary and awed at the very places I had been lucky enough to see. Ashley had put together this travel plan for us, and included my Mom, whom we both wanted to give the chance to travel.
I had always joked that when we traveled, we needed to have a beach or mountain for Ashley and some ancient ruins for me. This trip had a plethora of both. Already, my cup was filled to the brim of amazing sights and events when we continued to stuff it full until I almost felt I would burst. It was dizzying, but a blissful disorientation that made me only appreciate the wonderful monuments of the ancients even more than I had before.
That day, we had awakened to the city of Athens and began our tour of discovery. I didn’t know how others felt, but as I walked the steps of ancient temples and entered the gates of the Acropolis, I almost felt as if I should remove my shoes. These places were as holy as any other places on earth. The towering presence of the temple of Athena and the Porch of the maidens watched over a bustling city below. Pieces of column and wall scattered the grounds waiting for patient archaeologists to repair the jigsaw puzzle left behind by long dead Turkish cannons.
Like a balloon filled to the breaking point, my heart ached with the beauty and majesty of the white marble remnants of ancient Greeks that almost causally scattered among modern city structures. I was a historian in the midst of History heaven.
Our group ate at a local restaurant that evening. The late afternoon sun had just descended as we entered the large dinning room. A pianist played lush versions of standards and recent musical numbers from the back of the room. The room was made with a huge picture window facing the acropolis and the Parthenon, now bathed in the bright light of spotlights. The Acropolis, which by law in Athens must be the highest point in the city, towered over our group as a reminder of greatness of generations gone by.
Ashley excused herself briefly and upon return, said “I have something special for you.” It was then that the pianist began playing the song, “My Funny valentine.” The song is an oldie. It dates back to an old Broadway play called “:Babes in Arms “ from 1937, but I had given a version by Elvis Costello to Ashley in a mix-tape while courting her. That song, along with the changes I had gone through in my journey across China, the discoveries of Italy and Greece finally overwhelmed me and the balloon burst. My tears ran uncontrollably. My chest shuddered and air caught in my throat.
But, they were not tears of sadness. It as not pain that made me cry, but the realization of so many dreams at one time! I was overcome. And I knew, I would never be the same after what I had seen and done.
“A single dream come true is worth a thousand realities.” JRR Tolkien
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
I should have been a rock star- The DJ years
Radio Radio
At Sterling, I heard the news that one of my classmates, Lyman Bowling, intended to resurrect the old, campus radio station. I was excited about the news. It was the era of the AOR (album oriented rock) and the FM DJ’s were a laid back collection of long hairs and stoners, or so it seemed as you listened to their quiet announcements and musical wanderings.
AM radio had dominated most of my youth, but in 1974 a couple of local FM stations opened just in time for the spring of my senior year in high school. The AM jocks were personalities who talked over the music, inetrrupted songs, and seemed to be more interested in the commercials they played than the tunes they spun.
I had grown up listening to the AM stations KAKC and KELI. The one great thing about those stations was that they played a wide variety of music. You were just as likely to hear Diana Ross and the Supremes, as you were Steppenwolf. The only separation of genres was that country stations had their own stations, but even a song like “Little Green Apples” “A Boy Named Sue” or a selection of others. The bad thing was that the DJ might just come yapping in as the chorus for “hey Jude” was rising to its peak, or blast his personality across the last few lyrics of a new song.
Now, that bugged the hell out of me.
The FM stations that had at one time been reserved for talk shows and classical music had found a new direction. When the Tulsa FM stations began cranking out tunes, we were in the middle of the progressive rock explosion. I lay in bed late at night, the radio on the windowsill next to my bed with long, layered songs drifting across the room, as a lullaby for my sleep. Songs by “Yes,” “Emerson, Lake and Palmer,” “The Moody Blues” and even more mystical pieces like “White Bird” by David Laflame wove eerie medieval type images into this new musical style. Some songs such as Bloodrock’s “D.O.A.” and “Nights In White satin” by the Moody Blues crept over me in the dark like gray light from a full moon leaving me slightly chilled and ready for something cheerier.
The FM DJ was somewhat of a new breed. They were eventually captured as if in their natural habitat by the movie “FM.” In that show, the program director named Jeff Dugan tries to save the AOR format from becoming just another commercial station. Man, what if Jeff Dugan could see the state of radio today? Packaged, sanitized and separated by genre like separating the white from the yolk. He’d be stunned. No wonder bands like Queen (radio Gaga), Rush (Spirit of the Radio) and Elvis Costello (Radio Radio) bemoaned the direction of what was once everyone’s musical lifeblood.
Lyman was determined. He worked the administration, gained a budget and set out to restore the station. Several of us volunteered to work there, including myself and Stick ( Dave Brigden). They decided to make the radio station one of variety, dividing up the day by musical styles. Stick and I scored the late night rock shows. Just where we wanted to be.
We were given a pretty free hand at our playlist. Stick and I choose discs from the station’s collection and added lots form our own. I carried a collection of over a thousand LPs at school and then depended on friends and roommates for even more. I decided to have a feature LP every night and fill in the rest of the scheduled time with miscellaneous tracks and rock and roll history. Stick and I made posters to feature our feature LPs and times that we posted in the student union.
It was the ultimate rush.
Think about it. How many times have you made a playlist on an IPOD, or a collection on a cassette or 8-track or mix-tape for a friend, sweetheart or a person you wanted to make into a sweetheart? How often have you given some music to a person because of not just the music itself, but what it says about you to that person?
Like the John Cusak character says in the movie “High Fidelity,’ there is an art to making a mix-tape, just as there is an art to putting together a collection of songs to keep the public interested. That collection of songs, along with the banter between the songs, is a reflection of you… the person who sits spinning discs. You sit alone, but surrounded by the people you hope are listening.
I worked at the station for two years. It was always a wonderful time. I still have one recording of a show I did when the feature LP was the double live “Wings Across America.” It was saved on an old 8-track tape that just 2 years ago Ashley took to Tulsa and had made into a CD. What a strange thing to hear my voice from across 30 years, quietly announcing the songs and artists, filling in the time between cuts with trivia and McCartney and Wings, and reading bits of campus news and commercials with lines like ‘I think you might be able to get into that, man.”
I did get my commercial radio license, but never used it after college. Lyman went on to work in radio at Hutchinson, Kansas and I think even the Wichita market. Stick became an air traffic controller and eventually learned enough on musical instruments to be involved in church music (after a complete turn around from his anti-Christ years). We had one soul DJ named Jackie Steppes. He was from Detroit and hosted the afternoon soul, and R and B slot. Jackie, like myself, also played football, but had an unforgettable radio persona unlike my FM jock-like laid back murmurings. “I’m the master blaster, the soul broadcaster!” Jackie would wail over the air.
To quote Steely Dan and the theme song to “FM”
“Give her some funked up music, she treats you nice
Feed her some hungry reggae, she'll love you twice
The girls don't seem to care tonight
As long as the mood is right
FM - no static at all”
At Sterling, I heard the news that one of my classmates, Lyman Bowling, intended to resurrect the old, campus radio station. I was excited about the news. It was the era of the AOR (album oriented rock) and the FM DJ’s were a laid back collection of long hairs and stoners, or so it seemed as you listened to their quiet announcements and musical wanderings.
AM radio had dominated most of my youth, but in 1974 a couple of local FM stations opened just in time for the spring of my senior year in high school. The AM jocks were personalities who talked over the music, inetrrupted songs, and seemed to be more interested in the commercials they played than the tunes they spun.
I had grown up listening to the AM stations KAKC and KELI. The one great thing about those stations was that they played a wide variety of music. You were just as likely to hear Diana Ross and the Supremes, as you were Steppenwolf. The only separation of genres was that country stations had their own stations, but even a song like “Little Green Apples” “A Boy Named Sue” or a selection of others. The bad thing was that the DJ might just come yapping in as the chorus for “hey Jude” was rising to its peak, or blast his personality across the last few lyrics of a new song.
Now, that bugged the hell out of me.
The FM stations that had at one time been reserved for talk shows and classical music had found a new direction. When the Tulsa FM stations began cranking out tunes, we were in the middle of the progressive rock explosion. I lay in bed late at night, the radio on the windowsill next to my bed with long, layered songs drifting across the room, as a lullaby for my sleep. Songs by “Yes,” “Emerson, Lake and Palmer,” “The Moody Blues” and even more mystical pieces like “White Bird” by David Laflame wove eerie medieval type images into this new musical style. Some songs such as Bloodrock’s “D.O.A.” and “Nights In White satin” by the Moody Blues crept over me in the dark like gray light from a full moon leaving me slightly chilled and ready for something cheerier.
The FM DJ was somewhat of a new breed. They were eventually captured as if in their natural habitat by the movie “FM.” In that show, the program director named Jeff Dugan tries to save the AOR format from becoming just another commercial station. Man, what if Jeff Dugan could see the state of radio today? Packaged, sanitized and separated by genre like separating the white from the yolk. He’d be stunned. No wonder bands like Queen (radio Gaga), Rush (Spirit of the Radio) and Elvis Costello (Radio Radio) bemoaned the direction of what was once everyone’s musical lifeblood.
Lyman was determined. He worked the administration, gained a budget and set out to restore the station. Several of us volunteered to work there, including myself and Stick ( Dave Brigden). They decided to make the radio station one of variety, dividing up the day by musical styles. Stick and I scored the late night rock shows. Just where we wanted to be.
We were given a pretty free hand at our playlist. Stick and I choose discs from the station’s collection and added lots form our own. I carried a collection of over a thousand LPs at school and then depended on friends and roommates for even more. I decided to have a feature LP every night and fill in the rest of the scheduled time with miscellaneous tracks and rock and roll history. Stick and I made posters to feature our feature LPs and times that we posted in the student union.
It was the ultimate rush.
Think about it. How many times have you made a playlist on an IPOD, or a collection on a cassette or 8-track or mix-tape for a friend, sweetheart or a person you wanted to make into a sweetheart? How often have you given some music to a person because of not just the music itself, but what it says about you to that person?
Like the John Cusak character says in the movie “High Fidelity,’ there is an art to making a mix-tape, just as there is an art to putting together a collection of songs to keep the public interested. That collection of songs, along with the banter between the songs, is a reflection of you… the person who sits spinning discs. You sit alone, but surrounded by the people you hope are listening.
I worked at the station for two years. It was always a wonderful time. I still have one recording of a show I did when the feature LP was the double live “Wings Across America.” It was saved on an old 8-track tape that just 2 years ago Ashley took to Tulsa and had made into a CD. What a strange thing to hear my voice from across 30 years, quietly announcing the songs and artists, filling in the time between cuts with trivia and McCartney and Wings, and reading bits of campus news and commercials with lines like ‘I think you might be able to get into that, man.”
I did get my commercial radio license, but never used it after college. Lyman went on to work in radio at Hutchinson, Kansas and I think even the Wichita market. Stick became an air traffic controller and eventually learned enough on musical instruments to be involved in church music (after a complete turn around from his anti-Christ years). We had one soul DJ named Jackie Steppes. He was from Detroit and hosted the afternoon soul, and R and B slot. Jackie, like myself, also played football, but had an unforgettable radio persona unlike my FM jock-like laid back murmurings. “I’m the master blaster, the soul broadcaster!” Jackie would wail over the air.
To quote Steely Dan and the theme song to “FM”
“Give her some funked up music, she treats you nice
Feed her some hungry reggae, she'll love you twice
The girls don't seem to care tonight
As long as the mood is right
FM - no static at all”
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Blisters on my fingers
Bob and blisters
During my junior year at Sterling College, I roomed with Scot and Bob, both from Kansas City and both one year behind me. We were all football players and a third guy from their school, Matt Breen, was also a resident of our same dorm.
Scott and I were offensive linemen. Bob was a linebacker and Matt played D. line. We trudged through football season together, along with our other dorm buddies, Mack and Don. When we were in the room, either the stereo or TV played constantly. Bob, or Mo as he was dubbed, always seemed to play either Todd Rundgren’s “Something Anything”, some Robin Trower or from some place he pulled out an album by Chaka Khan. The Chaka Khan alum became a constant joke, and our buddy Mack pulled it out whenever he needed to drag Mo across the hot embers of friendly ridicule.
The Beatles made up the biggest bulk of my collection, both as a group and solo LPs. So, everyone knew the Beatle albums. Mo preferred the “White Album” and especially the song “Helter Skelter.” It had been made infamous by Charlie Manson and his family, but it was the last line of that song that captured a drunken vision of Mo to this day.
Mo had been out drinking with some of the other guys when Scott and I arrived at the dorm room. Bob had a tendency, when drunk, to crawl up into his top bunk, naked. It was there, we walked into the bedroom, to find him pretty much in the wasted zone, humming and naked. Mo’s “manhood” stood at attention, obviously the target of his plans.
“Mo, you have a little dick!” Scott had said. “Look at that poor thing!”
“It’s only half mast,” Mo slurred. “Pepe is only half mast!”
Scott and I laughed as Mo threw semi-literate curses in our direction, hoping to keep us there as a distraction. We turned to walk out of the bedroom and Mo began to sing, “I’ve got blisters on my fingers” just as John Lennon had wailed at the car crash ending of “Helter Skelter.” “I’ve got blisters on my fingers!”
I am still an obsessive Beatles fan, but unfortunately, that song that I had once rated as 4 stars in the margin of the LP lyric sheet while sitting intently, poring through every musical nook and cranny of my newly acquired Beatle LP had become attached to a picture of a drunk, naked Bob Morrison. Maybe he was only at half mast and did have blisters on his fingers. How and why? I don’t think I want that mystery’s answer as a memory the next time I listen to the “White Album.”
Mo did play a part in another musical memory. Although it was not from any of the albums I had collected and entered as a group performance on a small highway headed toward northern Kansas.
Mo had started dating Sue Freeborn at the end of his Sophomore year. Sue was one of our football cheerleaders and the daughter of Doc Freeborn, who ironically in later years I would see speaking at my wife’s grandfather’s funeral. Sometimes, it is a small world.
Obviously, their romance took an eventful turn when Sue found herself expecting and she and Mo decided to marry. The marriage date was set to occur during the first weeks of our college football practices. We were still in the early weeks of practice and were finishing 3-a-day workouts. Our head coach, Les Unruh, set practice at a time on Sat. so that we could practice and haul ass to get to the wedding.
So, showering quickly, our group of friends piled into cars, carrying tuxes, changes of clothes and food to drive wildly to the wedding site. Mo was apparently nervous, just hours away from making things legal. So far, everything had gone according to plan and schedule when Mo’s car broke down.
We pulled over to the side of the lonely 2-lane road. The hot late morning was begining to settle over Kansas. The wind of August drifted across the adjacent cornfields as our group of larger than life travelers stood staring at the defunct car. Scott, always one to be mechanical and proactive, looked over the car.
Mo paced back and forth. He sweat nervously. “Jesus Christ, what are we going to do? What am I going to do? Sue will shit!”
IT was there, in the midst of that sweltering morning, heat rising off the blacktop, Mo confused and upset, that we his friends did what we always did best.
Our large frames, graceful in collisions of the football field, but less than delicate anywhere else, joined together, arms linked and stepping in a near high kick fashion to do a roadside sing-a-long of “Get Me to The Church On Time.”
I don’t quite remember how many times Mo said, “Fuck you guys,” but we did eventually make it to the church.
“Get a sense of humor, Chaka Khan!”
During my junior year at Sterling College, I roomed with Scot and Bob, both from Kansas City and both one year behind me. We were all football players and a third guy from their school, Matt Breen, was also a resident of our same dorm.
Scott and I were offensive linemen. Bob was a linebacker and Matt played D. line. We trudged through football season together, along with our other dorm buddies, Mack and Don. When we were in the room, either the stereo or TV played constantly. Bob, or Mo as he was dubbed, always seemed to play either Todd Rundgren’s “Something Anything”, some Robin Trower or from some place he pulled out an album by Chaka Khan. The Chaka Khan alum became a constant joke, and our buddy Mack pulled it out whenever he needed to drag Mo across the hot embers of friendly ridicule.
The Beatles made up the biggest bulk of my collection, both as a group and solo LPs. So, everyone knew the Beatle albums. Mo preferred the “White Album” and especially the song “Helter Skelter.” It had been made infamous by Charlie Manson and his family, but it was the last line of that song that captured a drunken vision of Mo to this day.
Mo had been out drinking with some of the other guys when Scott and I arrived at the dorm room. Bob had a tendency, when drunk, to crawl up into his top bunk, naked. It was there, we walked into the bedroom, to find him pretty much in the wasted zone, humming and naked. Mo’s “manhood” stood at attention, obviously the target of his plans.
“Mo, you have a little dick!” Scott had said. “Look at that poor thing!”
“It’s only half mast,” Mo slurred. “Pepe is only half mast!”
Scott and I laughed as Mo threw semi-literate curses in our direction, hoping to keep us there as a distraction. We turned to walk out of the bedroom and Mo began to sing, “I’ve got blisters on my fingers” just as John Lennon had wailed at the car crash ending of “Helter Skelter.” “I’ve got blisters on my fingers!”
I am still an obsessive Beatles fan, but unfortunately, that song that I had once rated as 4 stars in the margin of the LP lyric sheet while sitting intently, poring through every musical nook and cranny of my newly acquired Beatle LP had become attached to a picture of a drunk, naked Bob Morrison. Maybe he was only at half mast and did have blisters on his fingers. How and why? I don’t think I want that mystery’s answer as a memory the next time I listen to the “White Album.”
Mo did play a part in another musical memory. Although it was not from any of the albums I had collected and entered as a group performance on a small highway headed toward northern Kansas.
Mo had started dating Sue Freeborn at the end of his Sophomore year. Sue was one of our football cheerleaders and the daughter of Doc Freeborn, who ironically in later years I would see speaking at my wife’s grandfather’s funeral. Sometimes, it is a small world.
Obviously, their romance took an eventful turn when Sue found herself expecting and she and Mo decided to marry. The marriage date was set to occur during the first weeks of our college football practices. We were still in the early weeks of practice and were finishing 3-a-day workouts. Our head coach, Les Unruh, set practice at a time on Sat. so that we could practice and haul ass to get to the wedding.
So, showering quickly, our group of friends piled into cars, carrying tuxes, changes of clothes and food to drive wildly to the wedding site. Mo was apparently nervous, just hours away from making things legal. So far, everything had gone according to plan and schedule when Mo’s car broke down.
We pulled over to the side of the lonely 2-lane road. The hot late morning was begining to settle over Kansas. The wind of August drifted across the adjacent cornfields as our group of larger than life travelers stood staring at the defunct car. Scott, always one to be mechanical and proactive, looked over the car.
Mo paced back and forth. He sweat nervously. “Jesus Christ, what are we going to do? What am I going to do? Sue will shit!”
IT was there, in the midst of that sweltering morning, heat rising off the blacktop, Mo confused and upset, that we his friends did what we always did best.
Our large frames, graceful in collisions of the football field, but less than delicate anywhere else, joined together, arms linked and stepping in a near high kick fashion to do a roadside sing-a-long of “Get Me to The Church On Time.”
I don’t quite remember how many times Mo said, “Fuck you guys,” but we did eventually make it to the church.
“Get a sense of humor, Chaka Khan!”
Sunday, February 1, 2009
zeb music moment - My Brother keith
Zen Music Moment
My brother Keith. He passed away just about 4 years ago. He was older than I by about ten years. But, I had always been close to him and to his kids, Brian and Ellen.
Keith was the guy who when he came home from the air force would bring me stacks of comic books that his buddies there had collected. He was the guy who drove to Kansas to watch me play college football. When he arrived, I wasn’t in the room because I was out pacing the campus, a thing I did for nerves before the games, so he just settled in with the rest of the guys. Keith never knew there was a such thing as a stranger, one of my buddies had said.
Keith actually lived with me for a short time after his divorce. I was teaching and coaching when he moved in. It was football season, and Keith felt like playing football was like getting to be a good. Getting to coach it was the next best thing.
He was pretty surprised when he found out just how much time we spent at the job, breaking down films over and over and planning for the opponents. That might have taken a little of the luster off it for him, but a few years later when I decided to leave football, for what would eventually be 6 years, I told him my decision, and he said “why would you want to do that?”
Keith was also a cowboy at heart. For several years, besides doing his job as an airline engine mechanic at American Airlines, he worked as a farrier and hose trainer. There was a small local horse track outside of town and after moving out of my house, eh moved into a trailer there to be close to the horses.
He always wore his blue jams and boots, with his pant legs obviously quickly almost stuffed in the boots. He walked with a swagger, smoked way too much and he could cuss with the best of them. Keith could create a stream of swear words that even a pirate would blush at. Keith could drive his standard pickup with a cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other and manage to drink the can dry, crush it and toss it in the back of his moving pick up while juggling his cigarette and next cold can. Despite the fact he was a crusty tough guy, he sometimes sat very girlishly with one leg wrapped around the other. I always giggled silently when I saw him in that position.
He had damaged vocal chords when he had to have radiation treatments for a growth in his throat. After that, he spoke with a gravelly voice that seemed to be a reflection of his rough nature. He had nicknames for everyone, intended to shock and at te same time praise. He once told my brother Tom, “well, you’re a good looking son of a bitch, ain’t ya?” To my wife who had finished her master’s degree, he said, “You’re one smart bitch.”
Keith took some getting used to by some people of milder sensibilities, but till his end, would still never drink a beer in front of dad, and even tried to temper his language in front of the man he loved so dearly.
Keith died of several things. He had the problems with his throat, but still continued to smoke, as hard headed of a son of a bitch as he was. And, I say that with all affection. He would have nodded and said, “I’m gonna do what I want to.” He drank a lot, and probably more to medicate himself. This eventually caused a lot of intestinal problems, kinks and blockages. I sat with him in the hospital a few times when he would finally seek treatment.
When he died, he collapsed at home, getting ready to brush his teeth. His adopt4ed daughter from his marriage to Debbie rushed to him. She said he lay on the floor, smiled and then was gone.
Brian and Ellen asked me to be the speaker at the funeral. I have spoken at three funerals, Ashley’s mom Nelva, Keith’s and my Dad’s. All hard and all, to me a person who cri3es easily, tough to be able to stand and speak about what that person was.
Brian and Ellen didn’t want a preacher to do the service and the family wanted him brined in an old west style pine box. I think he would have liked that. He would have been pissed that we made a big deal about him, but had he been there, would have joined right in the story telling, laughing, slapping his knee and sitting in that faggish girl thing he did.
After I spoke, telling the story of Keith Dugan and then telling anecdotes of my own about him, the floodgates opened. Everyone wanted to talk about something they did with Keith. It became a celebration of Keith’s life. Finally, the stories wound down, and the last song played over the sound system. They had chosen all Johnny cash songs to play as the crowd entered and sat. At the end, the final song was “Sunday Morning Coming Down.” It was a song written by Kris Kristoferson and sung so painfully by Johnny Cash.
I sat now, behind the podium, with the refrain of that song about a man, his pain and his beer drifting about me. There, protected from the view of the crowd, I my piece spoken, I could finally mourn. Tears filled my eyes and I held in the sob as it painfully ached in my chest. I can never hear that song again without thinking of my dear brother, gone far too early and missed so greatly.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down.
My brother Keith. He passed away just about 4 years ago. He was older than I by about ten years. But, I had always been close to him and to his kids, Brian and Ellen.
Keith was the guy who when he came home from the air force would bring me stacks of comic books that his buddies there had collected. He was the guy who drove to Kansas to watch me play college football. When he arrived, I wasn’t in the room because I was out pacing the campus, a thing I did for nerves before the games, so he just settled in with the rest of the guys. Keith never knew there was a such thing as a stranger, one of my buddies had said.
Keith actually lived with me for a short time after his divorce. I was teaching and coaching when he moved in. It was football season, and Keith felt like playing football was like getting to be a good. Getting to coach it was the next best thing.
He was pretty surprised when he found out just how much time we spent at the job, breaking down films over and over and planning for the opponents. That might have taken a little of the luster off it for him, but a few years later when I decided to leave football, for what would eventually be 6 years, I told him my decision, and he said “why would you want to do that?”
Keith was also a cowboy at heart. For several years, besides doing his job as an airline engine mechanic at American Airlines, he worked as a farrier and hose trainer. There was a small local horse track outside of town and after moving out of my house, eh moved into a trailer there to be close to the horses.
He always wore his blue jams and boots, with his pant legs obviously quickly almost stuffed in the boots. He walked with a swagger, smoked way too much and he could cuss with the best of them. Keith could create a stream of swear words that even a pirate would blush at. Keith could drive his standard pickup with a cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other and manage to drink the can dry, crush it and toss it in the back of his moving pick up while juggling his cigarette and next cold can. Despite the fact he was a crusty tough guy, he sometimes sat very girlishly with one leg wrapped around the other. I always giggled silently when I saw him in that position.
He had damaged vocal chords when he had to have radiation treatments for a growth in his throat. After that, he spoke with a gravelly voice that seemed to be a reflection of his rough nature. He had nicknames for everyone, intended to shock and at te same time praise. He once told my brother Tom, “well, you’re a good looking son of a bitch, ain’t ya?” To my wife who had finished her master’s degree, he said, “You’re one smart bitch.”
Keith took some getting used to by some people of milder sensibilities, but till his end, would still never drink a beer in front of dad, and even tried to temper his language in front of the man he loved so dearly.
Keith died of several things. He had the problems with his throat, but still continued to smoke, as hard headed of a son of a bitch as he was. And, I say that with all affection. He would have nodded and said, “I’m gonna do what I want to.” He drank a lot, and probably more to medicate himself. This eventually caused a lot of intestinal problems, kinks and blockages. I sat with him in the hospital a few times when he would finally seek treatment.
When he died, he collapsed at home, getting ready to brush his teeth. His adopt4ed daughter from his marriage to Debbie rushed to him. She said he lay on the floor, smiled and then was gone.
Brian and Ellen asked me to be the speaker at the funeral. I have spoken at three funerals, Ashley’s mom Nelva, Keith’s and my Dad’s. All hard and all, to me a person who cri3es easily, tough to be able to stand and speak about what that person was.
Brian and Ellen didn’t want a preacher to do the service and the family wanted him brined in an old west style pine box. I think he would have liked that. He would have been pissed that we made a big deal about him, but had he been there, would have joined right in the story telling, laughing, slapping his knee and sitting in that faggish girl thing he did.
After I spoke, telling the story of Keith Dugan and then telling anecdotes of my own about him, the floodgates opened. Everyone wanted to talk about something they did with Keith. It became a celebration of Keith’s life. Finally, the stories wound down, and the last song played over the sound system. They had chosen all Johnny cash songs to play as the crowd entered and sat. At the end, the final song was “Sunday Morning Coming Down.” It was a song written by Kris Kristoferson and sung so painfully by Johnny Cash.
I sat now, behind the podium, with the refrain of that song about a man, his pain and his beer drifting about me. There, protected from the view of the crowd, I my piece spoken, I could finally mourn. Tears filled my eyes and I held in the sob as it painfully ached in my chest. I can never hear that song again without thinking of my dear brother, gone far too early and missed so greatly.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down.
I Should Have Been a Rock Stra- Home Sweet Oklahoma
Home Sweet Oklahoma
I think it was the spring of my sophomore year at Sterling College when we, a few of the guys at school and I decided to travel to each other’s hometowns. I was a friend with guys from Kansas City, Missouri, Chicago, Marion, Ohio, Detroit, and Holton, Kansas. We were a diverse group brought together I that little farm town right smack dab in the middle of Kansas and almost the geographic center of the continental United States.
For a place that was in the middle of everything, it was very much not in the middle of much as far as “happening.” Sterling was small and quiet, much like my hometown in Kiefer, Oklahoma. Although, Kiefer was about 20 minutes form a town the size of Tulsa and you had to drive over an hour to find the same from Sterling.
It was that spring when we loaded into my car, a 1970 Ford Maverick referred to as Bessie the Wondercar and headed south toward the land of the Dugans. The drive was about five hours and we were packed in. Te maverick was probably not built to haul a bunch of college football players, but somehow, we made it work.
There had been other trips, loaded down as well, when our collective weight made the car rub on the tires on bumps and dips. But, Bessie struggled valiantly to get us to the Promised Land and we arrived there just in time for dinner. Mom always had a spread of Oklahoma inspired cooking when we pulled in with whatever collection of guys had traveled with me. The first trip I took home during my freshman year brought three Yankees to the Dugan house, one each from Chicago, Detroit and Kansas. There, they were confused by white gravy and the fried chicken, but adjusted soon enough to devour everything she prepared.
After eating, we loaded back into Bessie for the 4 mile drive to Kiefer. Our house sat on top of a hill in the middle of Dugan Road. Dugans had lived in this area for so long that eventually the country road there became formally labeled as “Dugan.” It was a road I had jogged earnestly summer after summer in preparation for the line of football seasons I was to bulldoze through. It zigged and zagged downhill, over railroad tracks and then on a small highway into the town.
To drive around Kiefer was not a time consuming event. It was a town that might have held 1000 people. At one time, it had been a thriving oil boom town with thousands of people, saloons, movie theaters and banks, but when the Glenpool oil fields played out, it became a slowly dying oil town, with a few remaining companies which maintained the shrinking number of pumping wells. It was morphing into a bedroom community for people who wanted to live in a country town and commute to work in Tulsa or Sapulpa
We drove past the essential tour sites.. the football field, high school, the old drug store which still had ancient soda fountain chairs, tables and stand. The Fountain stand was no longer used, but the owner, Minerva, also Kiefer’s oldest living graduate at the time, kept it intact while doing the business of a general store. The tour was short, but the evening was good and we drove, windows open for a few more laps around the town’s downtown area.
It was there we were hailed and stopped by my high school buddy, Larry Lutts. This was Larry’s first year out of school. He graduated the year following me. We had been friends since we were 6 years old.
Larry got out of his car and walked to our window. “hey, Charles! You’re back in town!”
We talked for a few moments. It was obvious that Larry had been at a party. He definitely smelled like the Budweiser that I knew he loved. But, he had big news for us that he was obviously excited about.
“Leon Russell is playing in that old auction barn in Glenpool! You’ve gotta go see him!”
Leon Russell was the Tulsa musician who was big on the music scene at that time. He had released several great hits including “Tight Rope” and “Lady Blue.” He had been in George Harrison’s “Concert For Bangla Desh” and toured and wrote for Joe Cocker. Leon even lived in Tulsa and rumor was that he drve around in a pink Rolls, supposedly even stopping at the Kiefer dairy Queen at one time. He was the Tulsa Sound.
But, in Glenpool? At the auction barn? Glenpool was our sports rival, only 6 miles away on highway 75. It was a town not much larger than Kiefer and had obviously left its better days behind in the oil boom. The auction barn was a large garage type building that sat in a gravel lot right beside the highway leading into Tulsa. Inconceivable to me that Leon would be there.
“Larry, you must be drunk.” I said. “Leon in Glenpool?”
“I might be, but he’s there, “ Larry insisted. “What can you lose to drive over there and find out?” he argued.
I looked around in the car at the rest of the guys. It was Scott who said, “Yeah, let’s give it a look.” Funny, because I think Scott never owned a record or stereo until we became roommates. But, he was up for a look to see if we would find a world famous musician in a barn in Glenpool, Oklahoma.
So, we took the dark 2-lane road from Kiefer east to Glenpool. Turning up highway75, we cruised into the gravel lot adjacent to the barn. There were several cars lined up in the lot, and there seemed to be lights on inside.
When I stepped out of the car, I was met with a familiar sound. Leaning on my open door as the other guys piled out, I heard the words, I’m A Stranger in a Strange land” booming out of the barn, and piano and guitar waling right along in tune. And, it sure sounded like Leon’s voice.
The other guys looked at me. “It sounds like Leon,” I said. I had heard enough of his music that I could tell the difference between a live song and the LP, and so as Larry walked up to join us, and pointed toward the door, we began the walk toward the music.
Timidly, almost reverently, we pushed the door open. There, at the opposite end of the barn stood a collection of musicians playing drums, guitars and tambourines. Around the low stage area and stretching back to the door, some forty or fifty people lay or sat in various recline, listening to the band.
At the right side of the stage, in cowboy hat and sunglasses, long gray hair streaming down his back, sat Leon, pounding at the piano as if he were in a Pentecostal revival! “Told you it was true, “ Smiled Larry.
Leon always played like it was hell fire and brimstone revival time. The story was that he cut his teeth playing the piano in church as a young guy in Tulsa. It truly reminded me of the music I heard when I went to hear a sermon by our team running back, Larry Dashiell.
Larry had the appropriate name and therefore nickname for a college running back- “Dash.” The guy could fly on the field, but he also spent is time as a pastor of a local AME church in town. We went to hear him one week, and were greeted with a sensory event new to a boy raised in a tight lipped Southern Baptist church. The crowd was rocking and swaying while dash preached the word! The pianist, another college student named Brian, played that thing like it was in a Honky Tonk. We three were the only white people in the crowd, and our starched shirt upbringing was most apparent in the exhausting rocking service.
That was like Leon’s music.
We crept in like mice; sitting quietly at the back as he finished the song, talked to the other musicians and played several others. A roadie brought in beer for the band stacked high on a dolley. Leon stopped, strolled around the stage. His daughter, a little girl, climbed onto his piano seat, and began pounding the keys, while singing a kid’s church song into the mike.
Finally, seeing that things were winding down, we crept out as quietly as we had slipped in. returning to the car, we gushed about the cool experience of seeing Leon, live and in person in such a relaxed setting. We stood and gossiped with Larry before finally resettling in Bessie to make the drive back to Dugan house.
I have seen Leon live many times, both before and after that event. He had rented the Glenpool auction barn to rehearse for an upcoming tour. It was still a strange thing since eh owned his own recording studios in both Tulsa and at Grand Lake. Why was he there? I never found out for sure, but it was an unexpected bonus for me, for Larry and the guys who had driven that long road form Kansas to come to little Kiefer.
I think it was the spring of my sophomore year at Sterling College when we, a few of the guys at school and I decided to travel to each other’s hometowns. I was a friend with guys from Kansas City, Missouri, Chicago, Marion, Ohio, Detroit, and Holton, Kansas. We were a diverse group brought together I that little farm town right smack dab in the middle of Kansas and almost the geographic center of the continental United States.
For a place that was in the middle of everything, it was very much not in the middle of much as far as “happening.” Sterling was small and quiet, much like my hometown in Kiefer, Oklahoma. Although, Kiefer was about 20 minutes form a town the size of Tulsa and you had to drive over an hour to find the same from Sterling.
It was that spring when we loaded into my car, a 1970 Ford Maverick referred to as Bessie the Wondercar and headed south toward the land of the Dugans. The drive was about five hours and we were packed in. Te maverick was probably not built to haul a bunch of college football players, but somehow, we made it work.
There had been other trips, loaded down as well, when our collective weight made the car rub on the tires on bumps and dips. But, Bessie struggled valiantly to get us to the Promised Land and we arrived there just in time for dinner. Mom always had a spread of Oklahoma inspired cooking when we pulled in with whatever collection of guys had traveled with me. The first trip I took home during my freshman year brought three Yankees to the Dugan house, one each from Chicago, Detroit and Kansas. There, they were confused by white gravy and the fried chicken, but adjusted soon enough to devour everything she prepared.
After eating, we loaded back into Bessie for the 4 mile drive to Kiefer. Our house sat on top of a hill in the middle of Dugan Road. Dugans had lived in this area for so long that eventually the country road there became formally labeled as “Dugan.” It was a road I had jogged earnestly summer after summer in preparation for the line of football seasons I was to bulldoze through. It zigged and zagged downhill, over railroad tracks and then on a small highway into the town.
To drive around Kiefer was not a time consuming event. It was a town that might have held 1000 people. At one time, it had been a thriving oil boom town with thousands of people, saloons, movie theaters and banks, but when the Glenpool oil fields played out, it became a slowly dying oil town, with a few remaining companies which maintained the shrinking number of pumping wells. It was morphing into a bedroom community for people who wanted to live in a country town and commute to work in Tulsa or Sapulpa
We drove past the essential tour sites.. the football field, high school, the old drug store which still had ancient soda fountain chairs, tables and stand. The Fountain stand was no longer used, but the owner, Minerva, also Kiefer’s oldest living graduate at the time, kept it intact while doing the business of a general store. The tour was short, but the evening was good and we drove, windows open for a few more laps around the town’s downtown area.
It was there we were hailed and stopped by my high school buddy, Larry Lutts. This was Larry’s first year out of school. He graduated the year following me. We had been friends since we were 6 years old.
Larry got out of his car and walked to our window. “hey, Charles! You’re back in town!”
We talked for a few moments. It was obvious that Larry had been at a party. He definitely smelled like the Budweiser that I knew he loved. But, he had big news for us that he was obviously excited about.
“Leon Russell is playing in that old auction barn in Glenpool! You’ve gotta go see him!”
Leon Russell was the Tulsa musician who was big on the music scene at that time. He had released several great hits including “Tight Rope” and “Lady Blue.” He had been in George Harrison’s “Concert For Bangla Desh” and toured and wrote for Joe Cocker. Leon even lived in Tulsa and rumor was that he drve around in a pink Rolls, supposedly even stopping at the Kiefer dairy Queen at one time. He was the Tulsa Sound.
But, in Glenpool? At the auction barn? Glenpool was our sports rival, only 6 miles away on highway 75. It was a town not much larger than Kiefer and had obviously left its better days behind in the oil boom. The auction barn was a large garage type building that sat in a gravel lot right beside the highway leading into Tulsa. Inconceivable to me that Leon would be there.
“Larry, you must be drunk.” I said. “Leon in Glenpool?”
“I might be, but he’s there, “ Larry insisted. “What can you lose to drive over there and find out?” he argued.
I looked around in the car at the rest of the guys. It was Scott who said, “Yeah, let’s give it a look.” Funny, because I think Scott never owned a record or stereo until we became roommates. But, he was up for a look to see if we would find a world famous musician in a barn in Glenpool, Oklahoma.
So, we took the dark 2-lane road from Kiefer east to Glenpool. Turning up highway75, we cruised into the gravel lot adjacent to the barn. There were several cars lined up in the lot, and there seemed to be lights on inside.
When I stepped out of the car, I was met with a familiar sound. Leaning on my open door as the other guys piled out, I heard the words, I’m A Stranger in a Strange land” booming out of the barn, and piano and guitar waling right along in tune. And, it sure sounded like Leon’s voice.
The other guys looked at me. “It sounds like Leon,” I said. I had heard enough of his music that I could tell the difference between a live song and the LP, and so as Larry walked up to join us, and pointed toward the door, we began the walk toward the music.
Timidly, almost reverently, we pushed the door open. There, at the opposite end of the barn stood a collection of musicians playing drums, guitars and tambourines. Around the low stage area and stretching back to the door, some forty or fifty people lay or sat in various recline, listening to the band.
At the right side of the stage, in cowboy hat and sunglasses, long gray hair streaming down his back, sat Leon, pounding at the piano as if he were in a Pentecostal revival! “Told you it was true, “ Smiled Larry.
Leon always played like it was hell fire and brimstone revival time. The story was that he cut his teeth playing the piano in church as a young guy in Tulsa. It truly reminded me of the music I heard when I went to hear a sermon by our team running back, Larry Dashiell.
Larry had the appropriate name and therefore nickname for a college running back- “Dash.” The guy could fly on the field, but he also spent is time as a pastor of a local AME church in town. We went to hear him one week, and were greeted with a sensory event new to a boy raised in a tight lipped Southern Baptist church. The crowd was rocking and swaying while dash preached the word! The pianist, another college student named Brian, played that thing like it was in a Honky Tonk. We three were the only white people in the crowd, and our starched shirt upbringing was most apparent in the exhausting rocking service.
That was like Leon’s music.
We crept in like mice; sitting quietly at the back as he finished the song, talked to the other musicians and played several others. A roadie brought in beer for the band stacked high on a dolley. Leon stopped, strolled around the stage. His daughter, a little girl, climbed onto his piano seat, and began pounding the keys, while singing a kid’s church song into the mike.
Finally, seeing that things were winding down, we crept out as quietly as we had slipped in. returning to the car, we gushed about the cool experience of seeing Leon, live and in person in such a relaxed setting. We stood and gossiped with Larry before finally resettling in Bessie to make the drive back to Dugan house.
I have seen Leon live many times, both before and after that event. He had rented the Glenpool auction barn to rehearse for an upcoming tour. It was still a strange thing since eh owned his own recording studios in both Tulsa and at Grand Lake. Why was he there? I never found out for sure, but it was an unexpected bonus for me, for Larry and the guys who had driven that long road form Kansas to come to little Kiefer.
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