On Monday, I spoke about the anniversary of the death of one of my favorite songwriter/singers of all time, Bill Morrissey. If you missed it, you can read it HERE.
He passed away in Dalton, Georgia while on tour. He never made it big — folksingers rarely, if ever do — but he was respected by his peers for his writing and beloved by his fans for his raspy voice and live shows. The man could tell a story like no one else. I was introduced to him when I was at Salt Center in Portland by a friend who would go on to recommend many of my favorites, Greg Brown, Cheryl Wheeler, Lucy Kaplansky, just to name a few.
As luck would have it, and also because he toured constantly through New England, he was playing at this tiny bar in the Old Port of Portland a few weeks after I listened to an album of his, called North. The aforementioned friend, Andree, and I went to see him. Nobody opened for him and it was just him, a stool, a microphone, and a guitar. He was an unassuming figure, slight with brown hair and tiny, dark eyes. He smiled, said thank you, and started singing.
For the next two hours we were taken on a rollercoaster — laughing hysterically one minute, stunned into somber silence the next. And my god, that voice. That small man had a booming huge voice when he wanted. It was a magical night and sealed my love for his words and music. I saw him many times after that all around New England, including one unforgettable night with my friends Steve and Patti. That was a great performance.
I could go on and on about him. He was a poet, a novelist, essayist, among many other things. But in addition to remembering him on this sad anniversary, I wanted to talk about the subtle and beautiful philosophy behind the song I mentioned Monday. I won’t repost the whole thing here (you can find it in its entirety HERE), but allow me to post a couple of lines:
Were it not for rainbow trout
I would have to fish for bass
Were it not for the seasons changes
I would never see time pass
And were there not a chance for whiskey
I could make do with a beer
I wish I’d have known when I left home
Every road just led back here
There’s a lot to unpack in these few lines. And it hearkens back to what I was getting at in the last published part of Milo in Dennistown. In one instance, it might seem they are on opposing sides. The crux of that fiction excerpt was Antoine’s diatribe to Milo about “not getting pushed around by the elements”, in essence, to make decisions based on his wants and desires and to make actual change happen through action and not just letting things happen to him.
And on the surface, it would seem that the character in this song is settling. Can’t have trout, settle for bass. Can’t have whiskey, have a beer. Settling, right? I don’t think so. I view it as another way of not being pushed around by the elements. It is a subtle distinction, but an important one I think. It presumes no real choice. It calls for making the best of a situation.
Case in point, I bring you to a part of one of my favorite books by Robert B. Parker, called Early Autumn. In it, the character Spenser is trying to explain to this teenager he has been charged to find, a decision he is making. I’m paraphrasing here because where I am right now I do not have access to the book, but basically it goes like this:
“You know why I’m taking you back to your mom instead of your dad?”
“No.”
“To get the hundred bucks. Your mom offered me $100; your father did not. And you say you don’t care, so I am trying to make the best of a bad situation. It’s a way of thinking.”
“You’re just doing it for the money.”
“No, that’s not it. The money is a factor, sure, but not the only one. But all things being equal, I will try and do what is best for me. It’s good to try and live your life where you make the choices, but when you can’t, you make the best of it.”
If this all seems pretty tenuous to you, you are not alone. I get it. It’s kind of a hard thing to wrap my head around and even harder to explain.
But if I tie it back to not being pushed around by the elements in Milo in Dennistown, you start to see a pattern. We are all pushed around in our lives; by our families, our jobs, our obligations. And if we make choices that we want, we are happy. But if we make choices because we have to, those are choices too. And if you can make them feel as if they are the choice you make because you have to, then you can start to see them as, at the very least, tolerable.
I write all this because as I age, I realize I’ve made a lot of odd choices in my life. Some good, some absolutely goddamned fucking horrible, but in the end I realized — for better or worse — they were my choices. I made them. They are my bed and I have to lie in them. In the end, I hope the good outweighs the bad. Not because I am fearful of a hell I don’t believe in, but because I have hope for the ultimate good of me. I’m not convinced, and the jury is still out, but I’m trying.
It’s all a bit convoluted, I’ll grant you that.
But it’s something to ponder.
One final note. This week marks the birthdays of three of my friends and readers of this newsletter. And since I’m feeling all saucy and sentimental, I want to wish a Happy Birthday to Walter, Mike, and Joyce. Good friends who have definitely been on the good side of my ledger, though I have not always treated them in kind. I hope you each have a wonderful day, my friends. Cheers to you.
Thanks for indulging me,
~ Tim