I got the call last night, driving home from Cleveland after a frustrating business trip.
I was thinking, as I always do while driving, deeply…
It seems my nephew had written an essay at school about his silly uncle crashing his Kawasaki-green big wheel at the park during an epic race around the park’s perimeter.
Yeah, I crashed it more than once… but in my defense, the ergonomics on that thing are miserable, and there is zero torque in the front wheel pedal to keep that infernal big wheel spinning. Not only that, but the rear wheel steering system is downright suicidal. If you don’t believe me, get your bad self down to Wal-mart and take one for a spin through the housewares and the put-it-together-yourself-with-glue-and-one-allen-wrench furniture. You’ll see what I mean in no time at all. Take some pictures if you do, I’d love to see them.
But I was thinking…why do I stay “removed” from the whole thing? Why do I not call, write, keep in touch? That little goofball would love to hear from his Uncle, and I must be a selfish jerk to deny him a little Uncle Sugarbear talk on the phone every now and then…I’m busy, but not that busy.
(Everything is so temporary?)
And then, right in the middle of the pointlessly poignant pondering, the phone rang.
A little small talk, followed by the inevitable.
It’s interesting that the chatter on talk radio was all about the passing of Bill Buckley some time yesterday. I don’t know much about him, but he has apparently been a heavy influence on many of my influences. Rush went on about him for the entire opening monologue, and that’s good enough for me.
We live, we do what we do, and then it’s over. People who knew us say some niceties, then it’s back to the news at noon. Thanks for the memories, have a nice day.
But I guess that’s just my perception of the passing of a guy I didn’t know, but who has enriched my understanding of the world immensely through others who have reached me directly.
(Albert King is on, singing about what the blues is all about. He’s all minor all the time, not like his soul brother B.B. who sticks with a blend of major and minor to keep it lighter and slightly more hopeful. Sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. Stevie Ray stole most of his vocabulary, and I stole it again from Stevie Ray. See what I mean?)
I knew Annette Anderson. She was my Dad’s mom. Sweet as iced tea and simultaneously as stern as any substitute teacher. I wish we all knew her better.
In her Eighties, playing tennis every day and driving meals-on wheels to seniors that were twenty years her junior.
She called me Stevie.
The last time I saw her, she called me Stevie.
I was in Austin on business, and rented a car to make the drive to San Angelo. I call it a car anyway, the sobbing greenies would call it the end of the world: A huge, unnecessary maroon Ford Expedition. Nobody needs it, everybody wants it. (power, strength, capability beyond the ordinary)
There’s not a direct way to get there. (Ain’t that the truth…)
Mostly backroads, two-laners surrounded by the glowing green eyes of confused deer looking for the deer crossing signs. I ignored them, just as I ignored the posted speed limit signs.
The kind Texas trooper who stopped me a short time later didn’t care how fast I was driving, he just didn’t want me to have a deer and glass sandwich to snack on during my journey. That’s Texas for ya, have a nice day and be safe on your way. Sincerely.
And so I arrived at Avenue J right on time, even a little early, to take my Grandmother Anderson out to dinner for the first, last, and only time.
Good enchiladas, bad salad, and a great time. We returned to the house that has never changed and continued to catch up.
She made a pecan pie in what seemed like ten minutes, just for me. From scratch, I guess. I never saw any evidence of any of the preparation. Easy as pie, I suppose.
This was the house where you didn’t open your Christmas presents until after Homer Anderson read the Christmas story right from the good book. No leg lamps in that one, no lost lug nuts, just the three wise men and all the rest of it.
Homer had a German Shepherd named Lappie, and all I ever wanted was to have Lappie be my buddy. No such luck. She only had eyes for Homer and wanted nothing to do with me. That’s just about the only dog in the world I couldn’t make friends with, and it bugged me to no end. (Just one more thing I’ll never understand)
And I’ll never understand why I didn’t call her more often. She never wanted to talk long, just long enough to tell me how much she loved me and that she was thinking of me. Me more than the others? Did we all get the same sincerity?
That’s one more thing I don’t know.
Just like the names of my cousin’s kids.
(Albert again, everybody understand the blues)
I coudn’t talk much about it last night. Everybody’s too busy to go, and the close family wants to keep it small. As ususal, I don’t know what to do.
I played the same song for an hour and a half to a small audience.
E9, down to C#m7, down to A (add9), and then of course to the v, B7.
Do that a couple of times, then the bridge: G#m7 to C#m7 (a tiny Hendrix flourish there, nothing fancy, just enough to suggest the next chord) F#m7 and then back to B7. The open B and E strings are always in key, so they can jangle at will throughout.
When that has breathed enough, E minor pentatonic is (as always) the language of sadness. I played forever and never hit a bad note. A mistake can be bent until it works. Some slight chromaticism can end up on a major third here and there, and the combination of the major and the minor breaks the rules and becomes the blues.
(Do we get the blues because we break the rules?)
First unplugged, then through the amp with the wah pedal just slightly engaged, rocking back and forth very, very gently. A bit of echo lets the phrases trail out into infinity, going wherever it is they go.
Do that for 90 minutes or so, then segue into “People get ready.” If I could sing, I would have.
People get ready, there’s a train a-coming. Don’t need no ticket, you just get on board.
And so she did, sometime yesterday morning, after 95 years of sweetness and faith.
(All you need is Faith to hear the diesels hummin’)
On to Homer, on to Bill, on to the great reward.
Goodbye, Grandmother Anderson.
I guess the questions will have to wait a little longer.
Stevie
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