Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Friday, July 26, 2013

Burn Rubber


Something’s always ending. How do we say goodbye to it? Here are some thoughts on the subject.

See you on down the road,” she said.
It was her ‘goodbye’ to us, this widow of 82.
She’s moving to Florida, a conclusion, a beginning, something new.

Her farewell hints of a continual connectivity that transcends words.
Reading between the lines is an art.

We all say goodbye, every day, in many ways.
Hello to this, goodbye to that. Opposite sides of the same coin.
Some sad, some glad, some without emotion or remembrance.

Just this morning I said goodbye to the garbage.
‘Good riddance’ requires no interpretation.

‘Burn rubber’ was 1950’s high school slang, equivalent to ‘see ya later.’
It was popular long before high fives and fist bumps.
Drag racing was illegal then. Who cared? Boys live life on the edge.

Long strips of burnt rubber that lined lonely rural roads bear testimony.
To ‘get rubber’ in every gear was a Saturday-night South Georgia high. ‘So long’ to that.

Admit it…a certain sense of finality lingers with goodbyes.
Like waving from the back door steps, that last look as relatives drive off.
It’s a final ‘let-go’ before time separates, sorts and sequesters all things.

Still, the spirit lingers, suffuses itself into the details of day,
While we wait for the next Hello.

The Hopi Indians have neither concept of, nor words for ‘past and future.’
They live in the perennial reality of the present, the ever-present ‘I Am.’
No adios or adieu, no ciao or au revoir, no catch you later or hasta la vista.

Even arch enemies, Germans and Russians, ‘aufwiedersehen’ and ‘nakhvamdis.’
Somehow ‘see you later’ is hope for a reconnection, for good or ill, sooner or later.

My father unexpectedly said goodbye to part of his left arm.
He was 14. A shotgun blast delivered the valediction.
He said even after 61 years he still felt the presence of his forearm.

Goodbyes are not permanent. They leave memories as memorials.
They diffuse into a hallowed essence that lives with us.

As a youth I once nursed a baby fox squirrel back to health.
I named it Foxy, of course. Thought we’d be close companions.
Built it a nice cage, a five-star resort for the rodent. Fed it like royalty.

It grew. One day it bit the finger that fed it. The love affair ended.
Foxy’s wild nature ruled. We said goodbye. Foxy never looked back. Me either.

On the deck outside my office is a hibiscus. The flowers are yellow. And ephemeral.
I nurture it like I did Foxy. It’s more appreciative I think. How do I know?
Blossoms are new every morning. Yesterday’s blossoms die, fall off.

Nature’s way of saying goodbye to the old, hello to the new.
Nature has its own concept of ‘I Am.’

Yesterday I watched the last rays of the day’s sunshine creep over the pool.
It reminded me we’re all just spectators in the Grand Pageant.
The twilight breeze blew the lines of an ancient poem through the pine needles.

The moving finger writes, and having writ moves on; nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”


Who’s to say one goodbye is better than another. I have mine, you have yours.
Smiles, words without voice, often work when words won’t come.
And the farewell of ‘I Love You’ works wonders. But that’s just me.

It’s hard to say Goodbye without having the Hope we will again say Hello.
So, catch you on the flip side or see you on down the road. Burn rubber, y’all.

Bud Hearn
July 26, 2013

Friday, July 19, 2013

Precious Memories


Ah, summer, the barefoot days of youth.
Who forgets? Memories persist, never die, though they lie buried,
Resting peacefully in the inner chambers of our souls,
Like us, waiting to live again.

Flash-backs recollect and resurrect with taste,
A watermelon, thick, pale red, juicy, black seeds,
Transports back, relief from the heat of the day.
Mama’s call comes again, clearly resonates.

The blueberry patch, we ate more than we kept,
The strawberries, wet with dew,
The wild blackberries, thorns like barbed wire,
The cobbler worth the barbed conflict.

The fishing hole, the swimming pool,
And beach that stole our hours,
The secret climbs in sturdy oaks,
The bike rides down to town.

We stand in shadows, the shade of a tall pine tree,
Matt and I, yesterday, in Woodbine, barely a town,
Caught in the same time warp as our memories.
Empty sidewalks, a vacuum, heat stifles movement.

In the distance an apparition appears. One bike, two boys.
One peddles, the other rides free, standing on the rear wheel struts.
Here comes summer, South Georgia at its best.
They own the road. They own the day.

Like cumulus clouds in motion slow they pass by unconcerned,
Going nowhere fast. Which may be the point of it all.
In shorts, shoeless, shirtless, oblivious, all they need to own,
No watch, no wallet, no wireless, no need.

They will likely not recall this day, for memory seeps in slow.
They have today what we had in ours, freedom just to be.
Though they gave no thought to what it meant,
Still they know it, not in words, but in how it felt.

We feel it, too, the frosty Kool-Aid summers of our days gone by.
We hear a song, familiar, unforgotten, from a church far away,
Precious memories, how they linger, how they ever flood my soul
In the stillness of the midnight, Precious, sacred scenes unfold
.

If only life were always so simple, as in the barefoot days of our youth.


Bud Hearn
July 19, 2013
















Friday, July 12, 2013

The Virtuoso


It might be said I was born into a musical family…they sang dirges the day I was delivered. It got better as I got older, but not much.


The African proverb warns, “Only a fool tests the depth of the water with both feet.” I ignored this advice, cast caution aside and took the plunge. I bought a violin. So far it has not salvaged the family’s fading reputation for music.

The violin intrigues me. Having yet to receive celebrity status from previous musical instruments, or anything else for that matter, the violin is a sure route to stardom. Hope springs eternal.

I picture myself as Paganini, sitting in first chair, a master of pizzicato, plucking the crowd’s heartstrings in a revival of the era of Romanticism. Roses lay at my feet, the concert hall electric with intensity as the crowd eagerly anticipates my masterful performance. A vivid imagination is essential to make such an absurdity real, you know.

I learned early from two sources the power of mental projection. One, the ‘see-it-and-be-it’ self-help crowd, a splinter branch of Amway. This group is popular with people imagining a free Cadillac. Then there was the Pentecostal Prelates, an offshoot of the Holy Rollers who gained notoriety by their ‘name-it-and-claim-it’ mantra. I was an easy sale.

My musical experimentation began with a black Recorder, a medieval kind of flute that’s popular with snake charmers. It did more harm than charm in my house. But we all begin somewhere. I moved on.

I found some fleeting fame with the piano in high school and college with a couple of bands. We played gigs at the American Legion hall and a couple of times on Freddie Miller’s Stars of Tomorrow TV series. Nothing approaching success ever came from these explorations.

Guitars make money. They attract wild crowds of screaming fans. I tried one. It went nowhere, the same place where my trumpet, organ, Jew’s harp and harmonica went. Still, my musical heritage impels me onward.

My uncle Wayward, who once was lost but now is found, achieved local prominence after he found religion and perfected the tune of Amazing Grace by blowing on the open top of an empty RC Cola bottle. Ed Sullivan once contacted him but it went nowhere.

My grandfather had the unusual talent of melodic whistling. He used it to call up crows to the amazement of small children at county fairs.

My mother took up yodeling after watching Lawrence Welk. But it went sideways when stray cats and railroad hobos began to show up. My first cousin once played ‘spoons’ at the local Masonic Lodge talent show. The incident remains an embarrassment. But I’m intent on resurrecting the family name from musical obscurity.

The black violin case stares at me. Inside is a torturous device best suited as an antidote for Duck Dynasty. I take the violin, tune it and begin practice on the back porch. Nature cringes, leaves wilt, dogs howl, birds flee. Discouragement whispers, “Give it up.”

I think of my violin instructor. Practice makes perfect she says. She’s a demure lady with an addiction to torture. She patiently endures the E-string screeching inflicted upon her and has yet to flee when I arrive. She’s not discouraged by my learning curve, which so far is a flat line. She’s a source of constant encouragement by referring to me as ‘Maestro.’ I wonder if she is also a Pentecostal Prelate.

For days I whiz through the beginner’s violin book. I attack it with a savage fury like a man possessed. It’s a humbling experience to revert to first grade. I want to graduate. But with every move of the bow I see graduation as a fading mirage.

Still I persevere, the Vision sustains me. Slowly the fingers find the notes. A tune takes form. Ok, so “Mary Had a Little Lamb” uses only three notes ~~ it’s technically a song, right?

Progress proceeds tediously slow. After interminable practice I’m ready for the first recital, a serenade to my wife. I time the moment when she’s about to go to sleep. I turn off the light, stand in the dark shadows as I imagine Romeo would.

The bow moves slowly across the strings. The heavens explode. The strings emit a tortured version of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” The performance was not my finest hour, but it was a defining moment. She hasn’t slept since. Success seems a long way off!

I don’t believe it’s too far off tune to say that learning to play a violin is analogous to experiencing life…a lot of practice with moments of sheer joy. But it’s close.

I’m still waiting for the rapture of a violinist virtuoso. Imagine the possibilities!

Bud Hearn
July 12, 2013

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Our Flag Was Still There


The price of liberty is eternal vigilance.” Patrick Henry

The card simply read, “Happy Birthday, America…for 237 years old, you’re looking pretty good.”

Inside was a small scroll. On it read these words:

My, how you have grown. From a few stout souls to what, over 313 million now? My plan seems to be working, even though I continue to keep my fingers crossed.

Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long, given the red and blue political divisions. You seem to have another civil war seething inside. It’s confusing to me. But I have not abandoned you yet, although that thought has occurred to me more than once.

Your body is showing the strains of wear. It’s hard to recognize you from your baby pictures. Lesser mortals and countries would have folded their tents and ridden off on their camels. But not you. You’re of hearty stock, chiseled by conflict, raw-boned, with a tough hide and courage of steel. Perseverance is your nature. A national Spirit lives within you. It’s my gift.

You were born of a Higher Power for a Higher Purpose…Liberty. For that worthy cause you have strived. You were born by the shedding of blood, not by cunning words crafted from philosophical dictates. You were given a Manifest Destiny, a calling to create something new…a new nation, a nation whose cornerstone is Freedom. That Divine Destiny still lives within you.

Freedom costs. Every generation must earn it. The blood of your patriots, your martyrs, your fearless founding fathers cries from their graves even today. Their collective hearts still beat for freedom beneath your feet as you walk the dust and dirt of battlefields everywhere…from Bunker Hill to Ft. Washington, from Atlanta to Gettysburg, from Europe to Viet Nam, from Korea to Iraq.

America, your soil is stained from 384 battles in a Civil War waged to preserve this Grand Vision of a United States. Some 625,000 of your countrymen perished in this endeavor. The wound remains fresh, the scar permanent.

Lately cracks are eroding your former staunch resolve. Ice is forming in your soul. The work ethic once instilled in you is flagging. Ease and prosperity sap your strength. You’re getting soft, fat and satisfied. Idleness is rewarded; creativity punished. Your taxes and your laws are balls and chains. You sing songs with lines, “God shed His grace on thee,” but you ignore ‘grace’ and enact laws and tolls that load your citizens with burdens grievous to be borne.

America, allow me to remind you of this wisdom, “When the will fails, so do the hands, and you live at the expense of life.”

Grab yourself by the neck and shake off the innate laziness that so easily besets you. Stir up the vision and determination that sustains your life. There is no free lunch here. Your destiny is not written by lines in the palms of your hands but in the toil and sweat of your collective efforts. These are the marks of your greatness.

July 4, 1776 commemorates the birth of America, something new and bold, a noble experiment in the belief that all men are created with inalienable rights: life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Was it an illusion? No! From the compost pile of these ideals emerged your great nation.

Will you remain great? Will you embrace this gift of Freedom, preserve its heritage, protect it and pass it on? Or will the grit of discontent grind away the grace you have been given? Will the flag still be there for the next generation? The choice is before you every day...Yes or No.

But for now, let’s celebrate your birthday. So strike up the bands, march in parades, grill up the hot dogs, slice up the watermelons, scoop up the ice cream, break out the beer and crown it all with traditional fireworks. Have fun!

You are a beacon of light to nations. As your fireworks explode and light the night’s darkness, then sing praises for your flag that’s still flying there…flying over the Land of the Free!

Happy Birthday, America
from The Spirit of Freedom.


Bud Hearn
July 2, 2013