Childhood Dreams

Most children, and boys in particular, dream of wild and exotic careers when they grow up. Very few of us actually envisioned ourselves as working adults. Life for a child is free and open to all possibilities, so the concept of success being defined by the size of your bank account never entered into the equation. I guess the question is this: Would the twelve-year me recognize the fifty four year old version I have become? Now I’ve held a lot of jobs in my life and even made a good living for a short time. But let’s be honest here, I never have fit into the take no prisoners corporate mentality that pervades our society. In a world that values conquest over peace, dominance over compassion and profit above all it can be hard to find your place (much less thrive) if you don’t possess the necessary skills to do so. It’s not that I haven’t tried, but to judge my self-worth on such arbitrary things as sales goals and gross profit margins is madness. The cold hard truth, however, is America worships at the altar of power. And what above all else constitutes power in our world? Money. When a teacher, a person that has dedicated their life to the education of our children, has to face debilitating budget cuts, while the powers that be poor untold billions into an ever-expanding military/industrial complex, something is terribly wrong! How do we fix it? I don’t know and if I did who would listen? But I will say this: I want off this merry go round! Now I realize we all have to work, and I also realize there are those that see things differently than me. But if you value the almighty dollar above common human decency, you’re part of the problem. It’s not that difficult, really. Do unto others as you would have done unto you.

The Tattoo: A Very Short Story

The sadness was inescapable. It was as if the building itself was weeping, not the kind of place she expected to find her husband. “Why so many lab coats? God, what I wouldn’t give to speak with someone without a lab coat! I can’t believe you dragged me here, Jim! You know damn good and well I hate tattoos! And this place? Well, it isn’t exactly my cup of tea, now is it?” Karen met Jim during her sophomore year of college and, though her overtly religious parents didn’t approve of his rock-and-roll nature, their love was undeniable, but this was too much! He was an accountant for God’s sake! What person in their right mind would allow a tattooed, middle-aged, make-believe biker do their taxes? But Jim was persuasive as usual and assured her it would be a unique and tasteful design. “Nothing out of the ordinary, Honey! I promise.” he said. So, against her better judgment, she gave in. And now here she was in this whitewashed facade, looking at his dreadful tattoo, and praying it would end. “Well, I’ll give you this, Jim! It’s a unique design; that much is true. But to be honest, When I look at you, all I feel is sorrow.” She wanted desperately to be alone with her husband. But the lab coats, as she came to call them, were incessant. “Mrs. Johnston! Do you know where you are? Karen, please! I know it’s difficult, but you must concentrate.” “Please!” she said. “Just give me a few more minutes! I’m not hurting anyone! Can’t you see I’m trying to have a private conversation! For God’s sake, Jim! Are you just going to sit there and let this fool talk to me like that? Say something! Why won’t you speak to me!” “Karen that’s enough! Listen to me! My name is Doctor Nelson; You’re in the psychiatric ward of saint Christopher’s memorial hospital. Your husband, Jim, passed away ten years ago in an automobile accident!” Karen’s eyes filled with tears as she realized what was happening. And with all the dignity she could muster, she wiped her eyes, straightened her hair and apologized for her irrational behavior. “It’s quite alright, Karen. This isn’t my first rodeo. Is that your husband in the picture?” “Yes.” Said Karen. “See that dreadful tattoo? I begged him not to get it. I kept telling him it was a bad omen, but he wouldn’t listen.” “I see it, but I can’t make out what it says.” “Death will not own me.” She said. “Mrs. Johnston, Please, take your meds. They will help with the hallucinations.”

Piss Poor Choices!

Realizing that much of the heartache in life is – with few exceptions - a direct result of your piss-poor choices is a bitter pill to swallow… indeed. But the good news is this: Life isn’t static or binary, but subtle and nuanced, and we can change our minds at any given time. The bigger question is why don’t we? Maybe it’s the sense of security holding on to duplicitous beliefs provides. After all, it’s much easier to believe that it’s someone else’s fault and not our own fear and self-loathing that has led us astray. The devil tricked me, Eve ate the apple, and I’m not good enough. Sure, these excuses provide a false sense of absolution but do nothing to rectify the situation. Granted, I don’t have all the answers and never claimed to. But until we acknowledge our shortcomings and listen to different points of view, nothing in society, or our personal lives, will change.

Woody Guthrie Museum

My wife and I decided to take a short road trip, check out some antique stores, eat some delicious and nutritious Mexican food – my idea not hers - and spend some time away from the hometown. I was born here, raised here and God knows I’ll most likely die here, so any time away is a good thing. Now, I’d like to say we just hopped in the car like two rebels on a quest to find truth in a world ablaze with mediocrity, but that would be a lie. We decided beforehand to visit the lovely town of Jenks, Oklahoma. Why you may ask? Do you have a deep spiritual connection with the city that must be explored? No, it's nothing that exotic, I really love Los Cabos Mexican restaurant and Jenks is much easier to navigate than Tulsa. That’s the long and short of it. Nothing more, nothing less. We spent the day shopping, laughing, and generally enjoying life until I made the fateful decision to visit the Woody Guthrie Museum. I know, right? It sounds so benign and uplifting. I’m here to tell you, it was anything but uplifting. But before I go any further, I need to clarify that this isn’t a review of the museum. I have no doubt it’s a wonderful institution. But the cold hard truth is we never entered the facility. After spending approximately fifteen minutes navigating heavy traffic, we arrived in the lovely arts district of downtown Tulsa where twenty-something hipsters with pearl snap shirts, high water Levies and ironically clean work boots were strolling casually down the sidewalk. Now, I know what you’re thinking: Chris, aren’t you an artsy type too? Yes, I am. But, I’m more of the small oilfield town, wearing high water jeans will get your ass kicked kind. But I digress, I have no animosity toward hipsters. The travesty was the total lack of free parking…anywhere! For God’s sake, this is the Woody Guthrie museum! The man who wrote This Land Is Your Land, helped unionize workers and generally fought for the working class. It seems wrong to have paid parking at a museum that honors his legacy.

Keep Your Love Alive.

I’ve written a couple of short stories, and God knows how many songs, and with each new project I feel an urgency that is perplexing at the least, and ridiculous at best. I’m far from delusional, at least not anymore. I know that the number of people who read my stories or hear my music is far from overwhelming. And when I die, like everybody else in this messed up world, I will be quickly and unceremoniously forgotten. And you would think having this knowledge would make me roll over and await death’s sweet embrace. But for some reason, I keep writing music and singing sad songs. It goes against everything our society values. There is little to no money in it and absolutely no way to leverage power. Hell, you can’t even get a false sense of superiority. And that, my friends, is a hot commodity in this hand-to-mouth world. But when you’re surrounded by a constant flow of bullshit designed to make you feel inferior for not owning the right product, being able to push back with something original and heartfelt is a powerful weapon. So, do whatever makes your soul feel alive and free. Jackson Brown said it best: “You gotta do what you can to keep your love alive and try not to confuse with what you do to survive.

Requiem for a Brother.

Camel Reds, fast cars, and an undeniable smoothness that screamed Rock and Roll. You were the epitome of cool, and I emulated every single move you made. Your vocal inflections, the way you walked. Hell, I even had a pack of candy cigarettes rolled up in my sleeve. I wanted to be just like you. But still waters run deep, and the outward appearance betrayed the truth lying below the surface. Dad was a mechanical genius. An angry, volatile and unpredictable genius. But unfortunately, dear brother, you bore the brunt of his anger. None of us escaped his wrath, and we all carry our scars to this day. But the medicine you chose to numb the pain became the prison you couldn’t escape. I know you tried, and I hold no judgment. I just hope you find the peace and love in the next life that you so desperately searched for in this one. Rest in Peace, Frank Edwin Ledgerwood Jr.

Vintage Instruments.

There is something uniquely beautiful about a vintage instrument. The scars, gouges, and dents create a tapestry of untold stories that only add to its mystique. I can’t help but imagine the musicians that played before me. Were they professionals trying to scratch out a living with their music, or maybe someone that used music to soothe their weary soul? So, what makes them so unique, anyway? It’s intangible, but the ability to take an inanimate object and make something beautiful is truly divine. It reminds us that we are more than just deadlines, unattainable sales goals, and unpaid bills. We can overcome our deepest fears and anxieties by turning them into works of art. And that, my friends, is true magic. So, the next time you see an “old” instrument, look a little more closely, because just like you and me, their scars tell a story, too.