Unintentional Eavesdropping

Some conversations just have to be shared.

Sitting outside at my mother-in-law's house, concealed by a hedge, I heard the neighbor's one-sided telephone conversation:

“So, yeah, wanna hear something really awesome? I'm a descendant of Pocahontas.”

“You know how she married John Randolph? I found out my great-grandfather was John Randolph. So, that makes me 1/16th Cherokee. Cool, huh?

And you know what, when I told Kaitlyn, she said, “Pocahontas? She's just a cartoon character.”

“Well, you know, Kaitlyn's not all that smart. She didn't do well in school and doesn't know much about history and stuff. So, anyway, I'm 1/16th Cherokee, but I'm really bummed because I wanted to get that financial aid for school because of my Indian blood, but they stop at 1/24th, so I don't get it, since I'm just 1/16th."

"Heard it in a Love Song"

Listening to The Marshall Tucker Band, Carolina Dreams, this morning on our newly reclaimed stereo system. 20 year old speakers restored, a friend’s turntable (fortunate for us he’s been seduced by the digital age), and a 30 year old Kenwood receiver I purchased from a Vietnamese thrift store owner who knew the value and wouldn’t bargain.

There are certain bands that give me this feeling, difficult to describe, a feeling that the sun is shining somewhere, if not here, that there are deep, clear, drinkable rivers of truth, analog, flowing, connected, not just these bits and bites of randomly, albeit efficiently chopped up and smashed back together information.

Some voices and tunes and words create an essence, some kind of rock-solidity that makes time stop. Other voices, demands, my anemic grip on what I think life is, all are put aside, while the song’s story fills all, is all.

I project myself into the future, an old woman, 90-something, blind, almost deaf, asking my great grandchild to find this song, to listen to it, as I tell her that there was a time when men and women were different. Yes, honey, they even wore different clothes; the women wanted to be feminine and the men wanted to be masculine. And then I’d have to teach her the meanings of those words.

And there was a time when it was not punishable by law to say something like:

“I’m gonna be leavin’ at the break of dawn
Wish you could come, but I don’t need no woman taggin’ along
Gonna sneak out that door, couldn’t stand to see you cry
I’d stay another year if I saw a teardrop in your eye.”

And, yes, honey, there was a time when you didn't have to ask if that was a man or a woman singing. There was a difference. A good, solid, in-your-bones difference.

Miraculous Every One

I held a newborn baby
The artist’s genius fully realized
in the hands, fingers, fingernails

These in contrast to the legs,
so spare, as if only penciled-in,
and the face loose, saggy, generic

Eyes, mouth, and ears,
like the fingers, as-good-as
or perhaps better-than they’ll ever be

Her eyes as hungry as her mouth, searching,
searching. Her determination something
astonishing at just five days

Does the mother have those small,
perfectly round ears? Is the reddish hair from the father?
Who has the long, exquisite fingers?

Was their coming together a giving, or a taking?
The conception a ploy, an oversight?
Was there crying and blame? Or just an ‘Oh, well’?

What world will she see with those eager eyes?
Other eyes that say, “You are beautiful. I wanted you.”?
It’s likely. Couples, a long list of them

Are waiting, afraid to hope, daring to pray
That she will be theirs.