Stories We Can Tell

Owed to Coach Bing Miller

"Deciduous Man..." Thanks, Shane Bullard for a little inspiration on this one. A few years ago, Shane was playing some good tunes here on social media...just strumming his 6-string and singing some great old country songs. I haven’t heard much from him in a while. I sure hope he starts playing again. For now, he sits and thinks about the fight. The good fight. Emerging slowly from a darkness That got hold of him last night. Oh, whether you’re a man of means or measure, Or just a wolf in black sheep’s clothing.How pathetic to be stuck there In self-pity and self-loathing. And what we’re falling for.But he rallies. Gazing out upon the Flag, he sings a line or two from Hag— "Today I started loving you again. And I’m right back where I’ve really always been…" His mind goes walking, across the Edmund Pettus bridge, Walking on the moon. Walking into death in Normandy that June. Through dust and fires, Across rivers running red with blood. Down deep, the music plays, Bad news on the doorstep, Bud. His faith returns against all reason. In spite of, in the face of, because of, and for the grace of, everything that’s happened. Despite the wrecking force of greedAnd the weight of sorriness gone to seed,He still believes in goodness, though.Honor, strength, and courage—And other stuff, you know.In those who swim against the stream,Who refuse to think alike,Alice Paul and Lucy Burns waging hunger strikes. Woody Guthrie fighting fascists with two chords on his guitar.Samuel Clemens sitting, Cooly smoking a cigar While birthing Huckleberry Finn.Jefferson writes the Declaration while he plays the violin,John Coltrane and Einstein were probably there to hear it—Living out the mystery of the cosmos, The science and the Holy Spirit.And there’s more.Let him tell you about Austin and the Bakersfield sound, And half a million on a farm, outside a little New York town, Giving peace a chance.Tell me, what’s the matter with a bit of song and dance? In the mud, Dave.Jump in the mud.But then here comes the blues, trying to pull us underWith all the dark and somber news of pillaging and plunder.History talk— Of railroads and boomtownsAnd gold and silver riches foundFrom Comstock in NevadaAnd the Black Hills of Dakota—No more buffalo, James, no Lakota.And never mind the sixty bucks he paid to fill up on the way,He rails against the offshore rigsAnd spills in Prudhoe Bay.Now, we fight the Keystone lineAcross the Plains, today.The question comes, though not the first, Not about the vain attempts to curb our thirst, Just “Hey, what’s the use of knowing all the worst?”“I don’t know,” he just may say,And he probably doesn’t know.He’s not the lion anymore, But that won’t stop the preaching, just listen to him roarWhen he speaks of schemes of thugs and parliaments of whores.He can’t forget old Howard ZinnWho talked about the mortal sin,Of going along to get along, Giving up and giving in.The world has suffered most,Not from chasing Don Quixote’s ghost, Not from deviance and defiance, But from unresisting, unthinking, obedience and compliance.Gazing out again upon the Flag, he hears those favorite lines from Hag,And he’s right back where he’s really always been…In spite of, in the face of,Because of, and for the grace ofEverything that’s happened. Everything we’ve done.At the end of the day, he’s headed home to his sweet dogs.The river on the left is calm and clear, there is no fog,He can see all the way across.Greeted at the kitchen door,By the Shepherd and the Labrador—Joyful and hungry. He feeds them well and then himself.And leaves the Irish on the shelf.He makes a cup of teaAnd sips it slow.Accompanied by birdsong, To Kristofferson’s devil, singing low,A line from a song a brother taught him fifty years ago.“I don’t believe that no one wants to know.”Gone, for now, is whatever got hold of him last night.His faith returns against all reason.A greater fool for any season.

Immanence-July 26, 2023

"Pool builders, Steamfitters, and Pilots"-a story about heroes and heroic tendencies...The old black man sat in a sliver of shade smoking a cigarette. He seemed puzzled by my fascination with his work. He must have wondered why this skinny kid was so intrigued by hard labor.“What’s your name, jitterbug?” he asked.I told him, but I did not ask him his. He was the darkest man I’d ever seen. He seemed ancient, yet his body looked chiseled from stone.“Jimmy?” he said, repeating my name as he stood up slowly and climbed back down into the hole.The way they built swimming pools a half century ago was a sight to behold. It was grueling, monotonous work—especially in the Florida summer sun— but to witness its construction was watching an artist at work. I was amazed by the old man’s meticulous efforts. His tender dumped a wheelbarrow full of fresh cement in the bottom of the hole, and with a square-point shovel, the man would start slinging it against the wire mesh on the walls. Two-thirds of the mud would slide down to the bottom, but never mind, he had already scooped up another shovel full and slung it, too, and of course, much of the cement slid back down. He continued the work for hours and this ten year old sat mesmerized. What seemed to be a terribly wearisome process began to take shape, as he formed the corners and edges with that square-point shovel, only stopping for a few cigarette and water breaks. I had no idea then about the dealing of cards and how they could be stacked against him. I didn’t know it then, but he was teaching me a lesson I would not forget. I never saw the man again, but I’ve spent many a day digging my own holes, slinging mud against the walls...

Intro: "The Lightness of Jimmy Buffett" “Do you happen to know, He Went To Paris?” I asked her, on our first evening walk on the beach together. And before Kay could say anything, I started singing it to her as we strolled along, holding hands. And that was the beginning. Little did we know how this pirate troubadour/jester would serenade us as we moved through our lives. The last few days I’ve been thinking about Jimmy Buffett—his stories, his images. And a funny thing happened: his words started coming to me in bits and pieces—so quickly, I had to brush them away from my face. I wrote them down furiously and this little story came out it. His music has accompanied us while floating in the Atlantic, the Gulf, and the intracoastal waterways. …through celebrations, road-trips, trials and tribulations, and even a wake or two. We’ve been blessed by so many great voices in our lives, and we don’t spend a whole lot of time ranking or rating them, but Jimmy holds a  special place. Kay and I both were Florida born and bred, and he provides a saltwater soundtrack, if you will—blue skies and ultraviolet rays. He broadened my cultural horizons. He taught me about the  magic, mystery and mischief in everyday life, spirituality in natural beauty, and liberation in laughter. His lessons on the art of “noticing” our surroundings pick  up where Hemingway and Alice Walker left off. For half a century Buffett’s music has served as a visceral reminder to live in the world, as Muir said, and not just on it. With his words, he takes us with him, wherever he goes. From that night in Montana with no room for doubt, to the corner of Walk and Don’t Walk, just sipping coffee from Café du Monde. A journey past the channel islands out into the cosmos, singing “Mother, mother, ocean,”  from a hymn he taught me at an early age. Now I’ve heard—and maybe you have too—Buffett’s work described as an escape, but it’s not an escape, exactly. He gives our spirits lift when we are too much burdened by troubles, worries, and obligations. Challenging us to try to live happily ever after every now and then. There is a lightness, in even his deepest work. “Follow in my wake,” he says, and so we do. Hope you enjoy... JM  

This is the final draft of something I wrote, before the name came to me. I really like this version. You can find the finished work in "Sabal Palm," a compilation I recently published. Copyright 2023 by Jim McGinnis. Hope you enjoy it

Guitar Story is something new about a few old friends: "And then there are the four guitars. He Strums and picks, Stirring sparks with stars." (a whole lot of folks show up in this one--from Tom Waits and George Jones to Coltrane...and a dog that howls at A Minor) He switched to the Les Paul electric And fired up another cigarette, Then played a cool and jumbled set— Cat Stevens, the Rolling Stones, Chili Peppers, and old George Jones.

Reading "Good Dog Loose," -for kids of any age- brought to life by Tamara's illustrations (she's pretty good) -available on Amazon

With an introductory excerpt from Shelby Strother

"I figure anyone who flies a great big flag can fly a great small one." -JM

The Paragraph    The other night, I stumbled upon some excerpt while searching for a quote, and it kept me  awake for hours—that one paragraph. Its author had made “a list of things they don’t teach you in school.” He said that school doesn’t teach you how to love somebody, or “to walk away from someone you don’t love any longer,” or “how to know what’s going on in someone else’s mind,” or “what to say to someone who’s dying.”   “They don’t teach you anything worth knowing.” Now, that put a lot on my plate.   After a while, I began thumbing backwards through the pages of something I had written until I found what I was looking for. I finally fell asleep in my chair.   When I  awoke a few hours later, I still had that paragraph in my head. I couldn’t shake it. I was troubled by the writer’s choice to blame his social struggles—in or out of context— on school:                    the place which for some, is their only hope for discovering a thread in their existence between themselves and other humans.   Now I know so many of us have had difficult experiences in school, and I know many others who have found it to be their saving grace.   Perhaps the author’s list had a shred or two of truth. School offers no instruction manual on how to love—school may well be guilty sometimes of hunting down spontaneity and killing it—but it can give us hints of what love is, and how it manifests itself a hundred thousand ways.   School can teach us the truth and power of love by showing us in a a thousand stories,  and through a thousand more examples of greater fools who drive to work each day with an intensity of commitment and attention. I can’t help but hear the Allman Brothers: “Love is everywhere.” If you discover those things, I’m thinking you can figure out the rest. The “how” part will take care of itself.   My search had brought me to a verse halfway down page 80. I had spent years exploring the nature of freedom, and I finally discovered that in its purest sense, liberty is driven by love. The realization came from things I learned from books and songs, preachers and priests and nuns, dogs and grandchildren— Of course, I learned much  from my companion…my significant other. And   my  family, and friends…                                and school. From coaches and teachers, from strange kids who slowly became familiar by spending hundreds of days with me in my classroom. Some of whom gave as much as they took.  Now, school is rife with challenges and shortcomings. Cookie-cutter reforms can result in the creation of all things unremarkable…unexceptional. Responses to political pressures have given us spoon-feeding approaches to education…thus lowering our expectations.  Teachers and students alike have stood upon desks and challenged  these things for decades.       But One thing School does not teach us, dear author, is  weakness. Weakness comes from the world outside of school—from readers and writers of such paragraphs. School gives us a sad clear eye on the lies of the grown-up world. A world that claims to care for the protection of the innocent—granting    refuge in cages surrounded by the threats and dangers created by those obsessed with their own vulnerability.   In school, we learn the countless disguises of fear and the granite hardness of reality.  And despite the beigeness of institutionalized compassion and the madness of accountability and structure, school can teach many things worth knowing.  Most importantly, love. It does not lose its way in the politics of politics. And if in fact, we’re able to discover that the end of our education is but the beginning of learning, well, then we’re on to something. The best lesson is learning how to learn. So, I reject the paragraph and its claims… happily…    

"From the Left wing to the Right wing, Can’t you hear us sing Resentment Songs? The politics of protest, From the Angry North and Bitter South And Wild and Crazy West. We like our truth only half-undressed." -JM

"It's Good to Know,"  "Disenthralled, " and "To the Ticking Clock"--all found on the pages of "Sabal Palm-Selected Writings" by Jim McGinnis

* you can find  Seven Times in my new collection, "Sabal Palm."  This one's about dogs...and humans. Hope you like it--  "...Spirit animals Lost and found, Hanging with me, hanging ‘round— Island dogs, Mountain dogs, And everything in between. They swim in any  water—muddy, brackish,  Blue, or green.  Run joyfully through any weather—  Beats all I’ve ever seen. They all love truck rides through town  With the windows down, And boat rides to the spoils Islands...

A conversation with Jim McGinnis after his recent release of Sabal Palm--a compilation of poetry and stories—much of which he's written over the past two years.  ...Reflections, musings, and writings from the ragged but ever-growing collection of this old Floridian.

"...I was rescued for a while, at least By a recollection running around my brain— The image of a  girl on a yellow bicycle Singing softly an old John Prine refrain.

A free life, for better or for worse, Oftentimes requires putting others first. But how? Long I stood on that old mountain, Believing reciprocity is all we needed. You know, treat folks the way You wish to be so treated. And the one I hold most dear, Of all of Lincoln’s lessons that I save, Is how he taught me that I cannot be a master If I will not be a slave. But isn’t the giving of yourself The purest meaning of love? And so, then it is the drive, the push, the shove Towards freedom? I guess that’s what I’m trying to say. It’s not so complicated. We do it for our loved ones Each and every day. We take it as easy as the opening of a door For it is the great liberating act of loving more. And what is love? Well, I think I know. Surely, it’s an overflow Of passion and emotion. An electric touch. But it’s not just a falling of head over heels. Love is a commitment to causes, A dedication to ideals. Inside us flows a natural spring, Fed by the giving of oneself To someone Or to a certain thing. Love, said Auden, is about paying attention. How about that? It’s the nurturing of friendships and kinships And the modesty of intention. Great sacrifice, And the satisfaction that comes With that which we give up, Fills and spills our blessing cup. And it all comes down to this. Copyright 2023 by Jim McGinnis "Sabal Palm" "...once upon returning to a place Shared knowingly with other folk—Within sight of someone else’s chimney smoke, I must willfully concede Limits to my independence. As did my ancestors, And so it goes with me and my descendants.  As a member of the  human race, I must decide to act in such a way Relevant to anyone With whom I share a space..."   -JM

"Jefferson on the Porch" I was sitting on the back porch pondering Eliot’s treason, Reading just my second book, of this, the hurricane season. Again, it dealt with Jefferson—and yet another look At America. My attention shifted First, to the brown dog lying at my feet And then to all my summer chores That would take me out into the heat. But then back again to the great Virginian. Something kept me there in front of the fan Planted in my seat....

a bit of an introduction for a lot of you, to one of the most creative souls I know—Tamara Fernandez. Her  beautiful illustrations that help tell this little story we call "Good Dog Loose." But this is just small chapter of her story.

"Let me introduce myself. I’m your grandfather. I come and sit here at your grave beneath this ancient oak." I heard a guitar player say once, “It’s all about the blues, man…we sing the blues so we don’t have the blues.” But I think some blues are made to stick around, and I don’t mind that. This is for my daughter, Meagan and her boy, Tiernan.