Unpredictable Forces
I’ve started and stopped this article several times and every time I start again, something happens to send my meandering thoughts in a different direction. As a result, it has been especially challenging to write about my recent road trip adventures. So here is my final attempt to share what has been occupying my mind lately, interspersed with some of my travel adventures and photos along the way.
Before Maria, There Was Sophie
This was the day Conrad brought Sophie home.
Sophie was 10 weeks old when Conrad’s dad got sick in 2017. Her youthful exuberance got him through that horrific eight months and the aftermath as only a faithful furry best friend can. When Conrad moved to New York to start his first “real” job, Sophie was there to help him settle into his new life as an independent adult. She helped him break the ice and pick up the pieces as he meandered through various relationships and breakups, and she filled a void during the isolation of the pandemic. She accompanied Conrad back to Michigan where they both lived with me (and Sadie and Casper) for two years. She was his anchor while he shifted jobs, eventually found housing, and nurtured his budding relationship with Maria. Sophie was privileged to be the only family witness when Conrad proposed, and she joyously welcomed Maria into their home when she moved here last year.
Sophie and Maria played many games together.
While I was definitely one of Sophie’s special people, her most intense love and true devotion was reserved for Conrad. She greeted him with uncontrolled excitement whenever he returned from wherever he went, whether it was for days or weeks or only a few hours. Their love for each other was reciprocal, and Conrad was totally devoted to her. She was a shedding machine, with her fluffy fur covering virtually any open surface, piling up and sticking to fabric as if it had been glued on. For a time Conrad collected the fur for a possible pillow, and one holiday season we all got sparkly Sophie fur Christmas ornaments.
Sophie would put up with anything for Conrad.
As a very high energy husky, Sophie delighted us while simultaneously disgusting us. She hopped like a bunny through meadows. She was a skilled predator and could dig critters out of the ground, sometimes disappearing completely into groundhog holes before popping happily up with her white face covered in dirt. If she caught something there was no getting it away from her and more often than not she happily devoured her victims. She loved stretching out in mud puddles, lying in riverbeds and swimming in any water she could get to, even if it was icy cold. She was adept at finding poop and one of her favorite activities was rolling in it. She had a typically distinctive husky voice, and Conrad and Sophie sang many songs together. She was a happy dog who wanted to be friends with everyone, even those who did not want to be friends with her, like most of the cats she met. Sophie was notoriously picky about what she ate, where she slept, and where she relieved herself. I called her the “princess” as she seemed convinced that the world existed primarily to serve her needs and desires, and expected everyone who knew her to comply. That annoying trait was also one of her most adorable character flaws.
Sophie the water dog!
Sophie was diagnosed early in life with a slowly progressing kidney disease, which was managed effectively through diet. When a fast-moving infection sent her to the doctor a couple of weeks ago, we learned to our dismay that it had attacked not only her lungs but also her compromised kidneys. I cut my road trip short and made a beeline for home. By the time I arrived Sophie had been brought home from the hospital and Conrad was treating her at home, feeding her with a syringe and hoping that she would regain her appetite and stabilize. It was not to be.
She valiantly fought off the respiratory infection, but within a matter of days it became clear that her kidneys would not recover. She continued to weaken. With virtually no time to prepare himself emotionally, Conrad had to make the most agonizing decision he has ever had to make. The day before her 8th birthday, as we said our goodbyes, Sophie left us, nestled peacefully in the arms of the person she loved most.
She will be missed.
Banjo Camp Report
For three and a half days in northern Florida, on the Suwannee River (think Stephen Foster inspiration), I did a deep dive into banjo world, totally immersed in all banjo all the time. I couldn’t have been happier! Some highlights and reflections:
I believe the banjo to be one of the most musical and versatile instruments out there. It is also quite difficult to master (even according to the experts). I think that most non-banjo players associate it with the sharp twangy loud sound that we are all familiar with (and can be hard on the ears), but I’m here to tell you that there are many ways to play the instrument and it isn’t all Beverly Hillbillies style or nothing. One of the benefits of attending something like a banjo camp, which has many instructors who are virtuosos, is that I am exposed to the beauties and nuances of the instrument that I didn’t even realize existed. Although I am studying a particular style of play (three finger Scruggs), it was fun hearing and learning to appreciate the differences between the types of players. Rock and roll on banjo? Yes! Bach and Mozart on Banjo? Without doubt! Jazz and blues on banjo? Beautiful! And of course folk and bluegrass, my personal favorites.
The banjo originated in Africa. During early American history it was associated with the enslaved people who brought their musical knowledge with them on the slave ships and then used it as a coping mechanism while they were regularly being oppressed, brutalized, and indiscriminately bought and sold. The people, along with the culture and beautiful music they had brought with them from Africa, were disrespected by the dominant white culture. This disrespect of the instrument (and the people who played it) continued after the end of the Civil War into the period of Reconstruction and the rise of Jim Crow. By the early 1900’s, blackface and minstrel shows had become enormously popular amusements for white people, and the banjo had a renaissance, with many white people learning to play and perform with it. But those performances were almost exclusively in the context of mocking black people and their culture as white folks appropriated the instrument and then tried to claim it as their own. As American culture continued to develop in the 20th century, the banjo went out of favor for a period, particularly during the Depression of the 1930’s and through the Second World War. It didn’t become popular again until the early bluegrass pioneers, led by Earl Scruggs, introduced a new three-finger style of playing that became a game changer for the instrument’s popularity. After a famous Carnegie Hall performance by Flatt and Scruggs and the Foggy Mountain Boys in 1962, suddenly the banjo was front and center again, at least for white people. It would take many more years for the black population in the United States to reclaim the instrument as belonging to their roots, but I’m happy to report that there are many black and brown banjo players making beautiful and important music today. Check out Rhiannon Giddens, for example.
Throughout the cultural popularity ups and downs there have always been banjo players behind the scenes on front porches, in living rooms, in family bands, performing at festivals, and writing and recording music. The banjo is currently enjoying a revival of popularity, if the faculty and students I encountered in Florida is any indication. While most of the students were closer to my generation than my son’s, this is likely due to the cost of the camp, which perhaps makes it inaccessible to many. That said, there were quite a few younger students, and even some children and teens, which I was happy to see. (Although I admit it was hard to sit and listen to a young teen play better after just a few months of learning than I can do after years of working on it. But I digress…)
Finding Community in Uncertain Times
At the banjo camp, the love of an instrument and the music it produces brought a large group of diverse viewpoints together. I have discovered, in this experience and also at various music festivals I have attended, that the sense of community that arises from a common interest such as making and enjoying music together, renders individual values or politics all but irrelevant. There are strong feelings surrounding all that is going on in the world today, and it is tempting to slot everyone we meet into one of the two polarized tribes we seem to exist in right now. But that isn’t what happened at the camp, which became a respite of sorts for all of us there, and we enjoyed each others’ company without judgment or question or hidden agenda. I had lovely conversations with everyone there during mealtimes, between meals, at jams, at the workshops. We didn’t check our politics at the door, but we also didn’t wear them on our sleeve or look for debates or fights. We were there to enjoy the music, the instrument, and to learn. And that’s what we did. I suspect that many, if not most, of the people I encountered were probably not of the same political persuasion as I. Yet we genuinely enjoyed each others’ company as we got acquainted, compared banjo notes, and shared stories about our lives and families. Refreshing, really, and definitely what I needed (and I suspect others did as well).
One of the bonuses of banjo camp are the faculty concerts.
We Need to Pay Attention
A person very close to me recently self medicated themselves to a frightening level that easily could have led to death. Thankfully, it turned out to be less dangerous than initially feared, but it served as an important wake-up call for both the person involved and those close to them. Speaking for myself, it was shocking when it happened, and totally unexpected. That said, there had been warning signs for months, even years, that this could happen. The “episode” appears to have been a convergence of various factors, none of which were being adequately addressed. These factors were exacerbated by the extreme despair that emerged after a constant 24/7 diet of doomsday news over a period of recent weeks and months. Feeling hopeless and helpless, and also battling a nasty head cold, the person took a concoction of drugs and alcohol hoping to feel better, but instead created a potentially deadly mix of chemicals that could have killed them. Don’t get me wrong. This was not an intentional attempt to take their own life. But it was a bad symptom of a very real underlying depression and coping challenges that left them unable to pay attention to the warning signs. This left them with an inability to climb out of an emotional black hole and compartmentalize the disturbing news diet that we are all subjected to everyday. We’re all very lucky that 911 was called in time, but it hit a little too close for comfort, and I’ve been worrying and checking in frequently ever since.
No matter anyone’s political leaning, we can’t let the news we don’t like push us over the emotional edge and completely obscure the news that can give us hope. There is plenty of evidence that the world is not going to end, that our democratic system of government and our Constitution will endure, and that there are many people fighting to make sure we all live to see tomorrow. There are also many things we can be doing on a personal level to find tangible ways we can make a difference, even if on a small, one to one scale. The people doing important work are out there and could use help.
So treat this as a reminder that we need to pay attention to ourselves and our loved ones. If warranted, check in with those close to you periodically and help them gain perspective and find help if that’s what they need. Or don’t hesitate to reach out if you are the one who needs help. We will all get through this somehow but can’t do it alone.
The Trip Home and Some Perspective on Our Times
My drive home from the banjo camp was not quite the experience I was expecting. I stayed one night at a small family farm in Florida very near the Alabama border. It was a multigenerational family farm a bit west of Tallahassee. My camper and I were protected by four very large guard dogs who were friendly, very laid back and chill. I think that level of calm comes from knowing that in an instant they will be on the job, ready to tear apart anything that may threaten the various livestock under their charge. For the night I was an honorary member of the family and included within their sphere of protected space. It was a peaceful stay after the hustle and bustle of the banjo camp, and I enjoyed the serenity. I also enjoyed the farm store, where I walked away with homemade persimmon bread, persimmon jam, goat milk labneh, raspberry chipotle jam and a coconut jalapeno jam. Yummy! I could also have had goat or cow’s milk, goose, duck or chicken eggs, or frozen meat, among other delectable delights.
I felt very safe with these beautiful creatures right outside my door.
On my way from banjo camp in Florida to Nashville, I stopped in Selma and Birmingham, Alabama. Given the turbulent political times we are currently living in, I felt a need for some historical perspective. I stood on the Edmund Pettus Bridge and toured the National Voting Rights Museum, and tried to imagine what it must have been like to be part of the march that was viciously attacked just for wanting to be treated equally and with respect. (I need to give a serious shout out to this little museum, created during the Clinton administration but which is tired after all these years and is showing a serious lack of funding. This is an important collection of history and information that belongs in Selma. Please consider clicking on the website link and becoming a member - they desperately need the money).
This is Lashunda Brown, who volunteers at the National Voting Rights Museum. I arrived as she was closing up but she was gracious and kept the door open for me to take a tour. Her shirt says, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” Martin Luther King, Jr.
In Birmingham, where I spent the night in a Unitarian Church parking lot, I toured the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute and stood in front of the 16th Street Baptist Church where Addie Mae Collins (14), Denise McNair (11), Carole Robertson (14), and Cynthia (Morris) Wesley (14), were killed in the bombing of that church by the Ku Klux Klan on September 15, 1963. I didn’t realize that those girls were not the only children who died in connection with that bombing. In fact, two young men were shot and died that day as well: 16-year old Johnny Robinson and 13-year old Virgil Ware.
I stood in the memorial park across the street from the church where child marchers and protesters were fire-hosed and fought off dogs sent to attack them. I strolled the streets where the Birmingham bus boycott went on for 382 days. This is also the city where Martin Luther King was arrested and wrote his famous letter from the Birmingham jail justifying his nonviolent, confrontational approach to the civil rights struggle. Much of what he said then resonates fully today:
… the great stumbling block in the stride toward freedom is … the moderate who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; … Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.
As I strolled through the museums and tried to imagine Alabama in the 1950’s and 60’s, at the height of the movement to desegregate schools and exercise voting rights, I couldn’t help but make comparisons to what I see going on around me today. Back then the violence against those seeking justice, equality and inclusion was rampant. Churches were bombed indiscriminately. People, including children, were clubbed, arrested, attacked and jailed, with no accountability to anyone for the violence and indignities inflicted. Those were turbulent times around the nation, and Alabama, probably the most segregated and unequal state in the union, was ground zero.
This vivid sculpture was one of many that depicted the violence of that time.
At the Civil Rights Institute in Birmingham, I was fortunate to meet one of the youth “foot soldiers” from that period. She was on hand that day to greet visitors as part of the birthday celebration for Rev. Fred Shuttlesworth, one of the leaders in the civil rights movement in Alabama. In chatting with her I learned that foot soldiers were the people who put themselves on the front lines of the movement. As nonviolent protesters, they were committed to accepting whatever violence was done to them without responding in kind. This meant that when they were beaten they did not fight back. Or when fire hoses sprayed them with high velocity sheets of water, or vicious dogs were sent to attack them, they accepted their injuries and kept right on protesting. When they were threatened with arrest, they preferred arrest to running away or leaving the scene of a protest. Gloria Washington Lewis-Randall, one of the many child foot soldiers, told me she was arrested at age 15 and then held in jail for two months. In fact, she celebrated her 16th birthday in jail. Now in her 70’s, she is a friendly, energetic, political advocate who is still committed to the cause of justice and is proud of the role she and her fellow activists played during that violent period of our history. She went on to become a social worker helping vulnerable families and has lived in Birmingham all her life. She knew Dr. King, John Lewis, Rev. Shuttlesworth, and many other pillars of the civil rights movement.
Gloria and I took several pictures and selfies, but she specifically asked me to take her picture in front of the jail that depicts the one she stayed in as a child.
It is impossible to spend time at a civil rights history museum or with someone like Gloria and not have hope that we will emerge intact from our current times. As a teenager, she stood up and faced down the most violent confrontations imaginable, went to jail for it and yet managed to survive and thrive. She helped bring about important social change in one of the most meaningful ways possible: through direct, personal, nonviolent action. We can take a lesson from the tenacity and bravery of all who never gave up during those years and who brought public attention to the cruelty and violence that was an everyday experience for so many people. The immoral public policy and laws that had governed all the corners of our nation for over two centuries prior to that point in time eventually toppled. We can’t allow ourselves to go back to a time that encourages and rewards that kind of policy and behavior towards others, no matter who they are or what we think they may have done.
As a country, we can fight government fraud, corruption and inefficiency in a thoughtful, productive way that does not demonize individuals or groups, or ignore or seek to destroy the personal dignity, respect and civil and Constitutional rights to which they are entitled. I only hope that, as a country, and as individuals we find that pathway before it is too late. As Dr. King pointed out in 1963, peace brought about by an absence of tension is not the same as a peace brought about by the presence of justice.
The last stop on my way home after banjo camp was in Nashville, Tennessee, where my brother Sam joined me for an evening. The original intention had been to hang out in Nashville for two nights and then head to Guthrie, Kentucky where we have family. The plan was to stay in Guthrie for two nights to hang out with my uncle, aunt and cousins. Then we were going to pack up Sam’s minivan and my campervan with some furniture that was going to Conrad and Maria. My part of that plan went out the window when I realized how gravely ill Sophie was, and that I needed/wanted to get home as soon as possible. I left Nashville and drove back to Michigan two days ahead of schedule. Sam, however, was able to complete the original mission of both having a wonderful visit with our Kentucky relatives while also loading up all of the furniture, not needing my campervan space after all.
I was very sorry to miss the visit in Kentucky, but will circle back to finish that part of the road trip, hopefully not to far into the future. In the meantime, greetings and love to Kentucky, and thank you for understanding the need to change my priorities. I was grateful to have a couple of days with Sophie before we took her to that final visit to the vet. And Sam, thanks so much for loading and delivering the furniture, and then being part of the support system to us when we said goodbye to Sophie.
What’s Next?
Stay tuned!
