As one who mostly
dwells at or near sea level,
heights make me dizzy.
As one who mostly
dwells at or near sea level,
heights make me dizzy.
Illusions of Innocence
Time was, the sun stood high and corn grew green,
The juice of youth coursed through our throbbing veins.
Love easy and free as the night was keen.
The grass our bed, our bath the gentle rains.
We took up books of verse and lingered long,
Imagined we were wise as those in odes,
Took guidance from the lyrics of a song,
Cast off the quaint restraint of outworn codes.
All along, ignoring every sign:
The chill that comes and strikes the landscape dead,
The smut that spoils the corn and rots the vine,
The vulture drifting gravely overhead,
And, one subtle clue even less benign,
That not one selfless thought entered our head.
NOTES: Reflecting back on my youth, I am chagrined. There is an old aphorism that states, “If you stand for nothing you’ll fall for anything.” There was a variation that went something like, “If you believe nothing, you’re liable to believe anything.”
By the late 1960s, many of us in my generation had pretty much had our beliefs in God, country and traditional morality watered down to pitifully weak broth.
Mainline churches increasingly didn’t even believe their own teachings. Patriotism was dealt a severe blow by the national identity crisis over the Vietnam War. The glowing reports of the sexual revolution made old fashioned morals seem not only quaint, but stupid. If you were missing out, you were not only square, you were a chump.
It was only natural that we would adopt values from the popular culture of the time. And the most influential popular culture of the day for the young was music.
Thankfully, there were some voices that seemed to have a moral compass. Bob Dylan, for example, started out as a folk-protest-poet, and never stopped looking for truth, going down whatever roads it took him.
But prophets like Dylan were scare and rare.
A good part of the steady diet we heard on the radio was more on the level of “Light My Fire” or “Let’s Spend the Night Together.” Teenage libidos probably didn’t need any extra encouragement if you know what I’m talking about.
Of all the songs from those days, one stands out as especially reprehensible. Of course, I’m referring to Stephen Stills’ paean to infidelity, “Love the One You’re With.”
Set to a catchy tune with some nice acoustic guitar licks, the song’s poison message is wrapped in layers of cotton candy lyrics.
If you’re down and confused
And you don’t remember who you’re talking to
Concentration slips away
Cause your baby is so far away
Well there’s a rose in a fisted glove
And the eagle flies with the dove
And if you can’t be with the one you love honey
Love the one you’re with, love the one you’re with
Love the one you’re with, love the one you’re with.
That there is some great relationship advice. Just great.
Apparently, I’m not the only one who hates the song. Even former front man of punk bands Scratch and Jesus Lizard, David Yow — an expert in vile lyrics if there ever was one — agrees with me.
He says he hates that song so much he’d like to choke Stephen Stills to death.
I wouldn’t go that far. I’m just chagrined that I once thought it was a cool song.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate all songs by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. “Our House” is a wonderful little tune about domestic tranquility. It was written by Graham Nash when he and Joni Mitchell were in love, living at her house with “two cats in the yard.”
It’s a pity that tranquility couldn’t last. But with the band singing “love the one you’re with” every night, how could it possibly last?
Midwinter warm spell,
Evening mist, tree frog calling,
NOTES: Took a walk yesterday and heard a tree frog for the first time this winter. It reminded me of this haiku from awhile back.
I saw you first in jonquil time,
When you were bathed in grace.
You sat aglow with fire sublime,
And golden shone your face.
I loved you first in lilac time.
A bloom I plucked for you.
I wrote you verse with song and rhyme.
I hoped you loved me too.
I kissed you first in tulip time,
It must have been a sign.
The buds and we were in our prime
When your two lips met mine.
I married you in daisy time
On summer’s longest day.
We traded rings and heard bells chime.
We pledged always to stay.
Too soon we’ve come to aster time.
The days are shorter now.
Would stealing some be such a crime?
We’ll make it right somehow.
Should we endure ’til wintertime,
The time when flowers sleep,
Dreams we’ll share of a gentler clime
Where we no more shall weep.
NOTES: Today is Valentine’s Day, and it’s unseasonably warm here in the Pacific Northwest. It won’t be long before the jonquils and crocuses start poking their heads up through the mulch.
And it won’t be much longer than that before my favorite — the lilacs — grace us with their fragrance and beauty.
It’s a good day for a modest little love poem.
Father, when you spoke
I believed you, for you spoke
NOTES: In many ways, my dad was a simple man. Farmer. Mechanic. Forced to drop out of high school to work during the Great Depression, he never had the opportunity go back to school to pick up his education again.
He never travelled to Europe or learned a foreign language. He never made a lot of money, or tasted the luxuries of life.
But he knew what he thought and what he believed. And when he talked about his beliefs, his strength of conviction came through his voice.
Often he was expressing his belief in the products of the Ford Motor Company. He was a confirmed Ford man. He claimed he had seen the insides of enough cars and tractors to know how each one held up, and which ones were made out of cheap materials.
He would just utter a phrase like, “The Ford Model T …” and let it hang there and resonate in the air. He said it with such reverence that those who heard it just knew that the Ford Model T had not only been a great automobile, but a miraculous product of a genius.
He could inspire similar feelings of reverence with exclamations like, “President Abraham Lincoln,” or “Old Thomas Edison.” You just knew these were great men.
We didn’t have pastors or full-time clergy in our tiny little Church of Christ congregation. The leadership was handled by laymen like himself. When he would stand up on Sunday mornings to “wait on the communion table,” he would recite the words by heart from the King James Version of Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians:
“That the Lord Jesus, on the night he was betrayed took bread, And when he had given thanks, he brake it, and said, Take it, eat: this is my body which is broken for you. This do in remembrance of me.”
Hearing him say it, you had no doubt that this was just the way it had happened.
Perhaps the most convincing and poignant expression of his conviction came many years later, as his wife lay in a nursing home, long lost to dementia. “Your mother,” he said, “was the best. I never met another women like your mother. Never.”
And you just knew it was true.