I saw my people

"In so many ways, the father of us all."

— Mary Travers

As the 89-year-old civil rights champion, Pete Seeger, helped close out the ceremonies that opened this inaugural affair on Sunday, so the efforts of the 87-year-old civil rights leader, Joseph Lowery, brought the celebrations to a resounding close today. At least that’s how I experienced it.

Lowery is former pastor of the Warren Street United Methodist Church, in Mobile, Alabama and co-founder with Martin Luther King, Jr. of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. His benediction was filled with references well-known in the black community but maybe not so well-known in the white world.

“God of our weary years, God of our silent tears,
thou, who has brought us thus far along the way,
thou, who has by thy might led us into the light,
keep us forever in the path we pray,
lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met thee,
lest our hearts drunk with the wine of the world, we forget thee.
Shadowed beneath thy hand, may we forever stand
true to thee, oh God, and true to our native land.”

These are the closing lines from “Lift every voice and sing” otherwise known as the Black National Anthem. It’s writer? James Weldon Johnson, of course. [His brother, Rosamond, wrote the music.] It's #149 in the Unitarian Universalist hymnal.

“Lord, in the memory of all the saints who from their labors rest, and in the joy of a new beginning, we ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to get in back, when brown can stick around ... when yellow will be mellow ... when the red man can get ahead, man; and when white will embrace what is right. Let all those who do justice and love mercy say Amen.”

The reference here is to Big Bill Broonzy’s “Black, Brown and White” blues, also known as “The Get Back Blues”.

"If you're white, you're all right.
If you're brown, stick around.
But if you're black, oh, brother --
Get back! Get Back! Get back!"

Broonzy became an influencial performer, especially prior to World War II, coming out of the Chicago blues scene. After the war, according to the blogger who introduced him to me, “he was accused of being a Communist and blacklisted, and, apart from appearing with his fellow blacklister, Pete Seeger (who performed for Obama on Sunday), did little for the rest of his life.”

Evermore

A Voice in the Wilderness

Somewhere a voice calls out
Just beyond hearing.
Birds twitter and rise from their roosts.
Leaves of grass flutter and flatten under foot,
As residents rush to below ground homes.
I see it all as I run, holding the pain in my side.
Too late.

Here. Is this the Holy Land where the voice was heard?
Was it a cry or was it a murmur?
Only air in motion or filling all with meaning?
I wait, sitting here beneith the tree whose leaves have heard,
Pressed against the bark, listening with ears and fingers.
Did I hear? Was it a voice of love or hope?
Why?

In the city are many sounds at all the hours.
The silence in spaces beacons loudly.
I lie in an empty moment holding tight to the memory
Of when the voice was nearer — ah, youth.
Babies cry, engines roar, lovers whisper in the dark
Just beyond hearing, but the echo lingers.
Listen.

— Oscar Handler, “A Bevy of Lies”, 1938

Here is how it is expressed in Psalm 50:1-5:

The Mighty One, G_d the Lord,
speaks and summons the earth.
From the rising of the sun to its setting
Out of Zion, the perfection of beauty,
G_d shines forth.

Out G_d comes, he does not keep silence.
Before him is a devouring fire
round about him a mighty tempest.

He calls to the heavens above
and to the earth ...
"Gather to me my faithful ones...."

Ideal Community

By the time I entered sixth grade my father had begun to come into his own in the business world, and our family came to summer on some of the small lakes in Western Massachusetts near our home.

The first year we tented by one of these nearby lakes, perhaps with the thought that we could actually live there all summer long and my father commute to work. But the land was flat, and the development was new, and my father sold this land after the first year. And we began to rent a cottage well up in the Berkshire hills at a place called Big Pond.

There the woods were old and it was four miles by winding, climbing dirt road from the main highway to the northern shore of Big Pond where we stayed in a cottage owned by Orin Handler. The Handler’s and the Grimes’ were the only houses you could reach by road in this part of the lake. There had never been anyone but Handler’s and Grimes’ on this road since it was cut, but Harold Grimes was planning to sell some of his shorefront property, and we were there to consider adding our name to theirs on the small sign that marked the road.

Any old New Englander would be familiar with the cottage we stayed in there — the big porches extending off living room and dining room through creaking French doors that were usually open to the breeze off the lake, but were often closed at night as the temperature fell even in June and July.

Then, the smell of oil fired stove would permeate the air and nestle around us as close as the heat itself, and we children would be hustled off upstairs to a loft looking down on the living room fireplace, the wicker furniture, the wooden rocker you could get on and ride like some wild stallion galloping across the plains until your mother cried out in fear that you would tip over.

Overhead was nothing but painted roof. The walls were wood paneling. The windows were hinged like cabinet doors and you looked out on the long slope of front porch roof and the lake’s waters beyond.

When the thunder storms came, as they frequently did during our days on Big Pond, the rain would come in a rush across the waters at the edge of the wind that drove it to engulf our cottage and thunder down on the shingles only inches above our heads. From the second floor you could see out over the whole lake as the lightning flashed its eerie white light and its tentacles snatched at the houses out on the island in the center of the pond.

My father and I built what was called a surfboard in those days — a vague cousin to what you would see at the seashore today. For me it was a pretty much unsinkable craft that I paddled by hand and by foot along all the shoreline and eventually around the shore of that island at the center of Big Pond.

The actual building of the eight or ten houses out there was a source of considerable fascination until the transporting properties of ice debunked the fantasies. The one house which most drew my explorer’s eye stood alone on a small peninsula of rock dropped by glaciers in retreat up past Hudson’s Bay long before my time. Isolated even from other islanders, I wondered at what sort of folk might suddenly emerge from within to challenge my small intrusion into their secret lives.

Orin Handler and Harold Grimes were a kind of old time Yankee you can still find in upstate Vermont or perhaps in other recesses of the country from which they have failed to vacate. They were men my father felt at home with and in this case admired, for they were country men but of class and culture.

There were not many such men, I suspect, in my father’s world and there were certainly no others like them in mine. Their families were long off the farm — perhaps merchants or seamen from Boston or New Haven who first came here for the cool of summer and, then, stayed on in Springfield or Northampton.

I found their books shelved on the long wall by the fireplace and stacks of “Boy’s Life” magazines up under the eaves. And an image of the life they led there burnt itself in my small, growing soul. I peered through their windows and poked about in their boathouses, for they rarely actually lived there any more, and in later years I longed for their life — for the ease of their manner, the ready chair by the fire where no person was truly a stranger.

At first my wish was just to be there, to experience again a way of living they provided and which I, too, could admire and rejoice in. But, then, ambition, greed for a life I could only experience but not myself provide, took over and consumed me. And it is here in this reduced and ruined form that I now find myself, and you experience me, grappling with the spirit that seemed to direct their course, and enveloping myself in every mud puddle, sinking slowly down into the earth from which I came and which so clearly shaped their lives.

The land is neither hostile nor welcoming in and of itself. But it does seem to contain within it something of who we are at our deepest core — a connection to the spirit of the life that animates everything — not as some detached, external mechanism, but in some extremely personal, intimate form in which I recognize what I want to be — not merely who I am but the special form only we humans can attain but which requires so much of us, so much effort to draw it out and is yet so easy and common when it comes.

I speak here of soul, not as of some alien being hidden within our decaying bodies, yearning for release to another land, to a better place beyond this life. No, this is the soul of who and what we are here and now, the bath of water and blood from which we were born and which now courses through our bodies, an oddly unfamiliar presence from which so many around us are actually fleeing. It repulses their nostrils; it is too coarse a salt to set at their table. And yet to separate from it is to abandon life itself.

I speak of the soul as of something warm and wet — the wet behind the ears that experience brings — experiences of love and welcome that form the bonds between us, bonds formed not by some exterior coating, but by some inexorable fluid oozing from within each of us like sweat or mingled blood, like the warmth that comes from within the fire.

I saw this life coming across the lake in the fire of stars and moon. I felt it shimmering on the surface of rocks beneath the surface of the water. It welled up around my toes when they dug down into the sand at the water’s edge. It slipped across my palm on the bodies of escaping fishes.

And I experienced its remains in the Handler cottage and in the gnarled arthritic fingers of my father’s hand clutching at tools they could no longer grasp. And it came to me in recent years in the flashing old blind eyes of my wife’s Aunt Charlotte as she searched out the form of her visitors, not by sight of course, but by a feeling that reaches out and holds you.

In those summers by the water my eyes, too, stretched out to embrace the life around me and I was in no way alone, though I may have seen no single person up close in a day or a week of exploring. Through all the angst and anguish of my worst teenage years I experienced there the same at-homeness in my element that my father and I understood in the presence of the Grimes and Handler men.

Not when skulking down paths after dark through woods where only the infinitesimal difference between trodden grasses and wild reveals direction; not even in the company of the most alien of god’s creatures (teenage girl) did I loose that sense of oneness of self and land — an experience never known down in my flat-land school or home, and that was to desert me so completely in the years of work and suburban life to follow, until I came here to live on my island in the Charles where the abandoned rocks, small birds, and marshes surround me as they did in the Berkshire hills, and the surface of still waters mirrors the golden trees of fall and me.

The Glory of the Day

It is a beautiful poem, but it is sad. It may be frightening. Worse yet, it is idealistic ... even naive ... romantic. It knows nothing of scarce resources which must be guarded… or pillaged when they belong to others. It is generous. The poet’s heart is not mired in discontent. He is not at odds, does not feel displaced from his rightful spot. He is not ashamed that he loves.

His name is James Weldon Johnson — the author of “Lift Every Voice and Sing”. He is Black. I was surprised to discover that. So, apparently, was he. His voice is possessed of such a special intelligence, his mind so focused in a place I could only identify as my own, that it seems incredible that this mind should be that of a man of a different race. And, yet, of course, he is a very Black writer. His themes, the occasions for many of his works, come directly from the Black community. They are expressed in plainly human terms. His heart and words are plainly human —

The glory of the day was in her face,
The beauty of the night was in her eyes.
And over all her loveliness, the grace
Of morning blushing in the early skies.

She is, of course, his much beloved wife. “When I met her, “ he says in his Autobiography of an Ex-colored Man, “When I met her, the surprise which I had felt at the first sound of her voice was heightened; she was almost tall and quite slender, with lustrous yellow hair and eyes so blue as to appear almost black. She was as white as a lily, and she was dressed in white.” And for the first time he had to face squarely the fact that he, on the other hand, was not. He says, “ ...I became again the bashful boy of fourteen, and my courage failed me. ...I don’t know what she said to me or what I said to her. I can remember that I tried to be clever, and experienced a growing conviction that I was making myself appear more and more idiotic. I am certain, too, that in spite of my ... complexion, I was red as a beet.”

The glory of the day was in her face,
The beauty of the night was in her eyes.
And over all her loveliness, the grace
Of morning blushing in the early skies.

And in her voice, the calling of the dove;
Like music of a sweet melodious part.
And in her smile, the breaking light of love;
And all the gentle virtues in her heart.

This is just so romantic. I was going to say, ‘it is just so male.’ I have never heard a woman speak this way. (Perhaps I just haven’t read enough in the Romance Novels vineyard.) I know there are women who feel that they have suffered from this seeming excessive identification of Virtue with Womanhood and, yet, its absence can be the cause of a desperate suffering.

“Gentle virtues ... sweet melodious part … calling … smiling ... in her heart.” Am I just old, just out of touch, that I weep for the absence of such tenderness in this life? Must we all be athletic go-getters, quick to fight, quick to scorn? Some kind of Super Adults who never need, never long — always the Meeters capable to the demands of the day? — always the Providers to others’ needs?

Here is the whole poem as Johnson wrote it. I’ll read it once and then I’m gone —

The glory of the day was in her face,
The beauty of the night was in her eyes.
And over all her loveliness, the grace
Of morning blushing in the early skies.

And in her voice, the calling of the dove;
Like music of a sweet melodious part.
And in her smile, the breaking light of love;
And all the gentle virtues in her heart.

And now the glorious day, the beauteous night,
The birds that signal to their mates at dawn,
To my dull ears, to my tear-blinded sight
Are one with all the dead, since she is gone.

Big Pond

It is about 9 am and I am setting out on what has become a daily trip around the shore of what is known as Big Pond in the town of Otis, somewhere deep in the Berkshire hills of Western Massachusetts. My mother knows only that I go out exploring on the surfboard that my father and I built . (Well, let’s be honest here. I picked out the design; he built it, with me standing along side fetching tools as needed. As an adult, I actually built another one of these surfboards in the same basement of our family home, but without my father’s supervision. He was much too capable a craftsman to be able to tolerate my amateur fumbling efforts. Let it be noted that my board floated as well as his and was never known to crack-up on a rocky shore.)

This was a rather large and cumbersome 1940’s style board; nothing like the sleek designs of the ‘80’s. But I could lie across it, and, with wetted goggles securely in place, view the rocky bottom of Big Pond in immense detail, square foot by square foot.

I began these artistic inquiries around the beachfront near the summer cottage that my father also built, but each day I move further and further afield, slowly circumnavigating The Known World. I say these ware “artistic explorations” because all I really care about are color and shape and what the academically trained painter calls architecture. Truly, I knew nothing of minerals or of the slippage of tectonic plates or of glaciers creeping back and forth.

I move out past the Spencer’s house on the point, a wonderful old musky, dark abode of the elderly, and, thence, into the uncharted territory beyond, paddling eventually to the largest spring source of this incredibly cold and deep summer home I love. And, then, I press on further still, working my way around the blockade of rocks rising up, suddenly, to just beneath the surface of the water — a death trap for motorboats. This is totally forbidden territory. And, then, in a surprising turn of bravery, I head straight out toward the center of the pond, where an island of perhaps a dozen houses beacons.

Roaring deathtraps drawing skiers or bearing fishermen cross my path; an occasional sunfish, too, sails swiftly past before disembarking its young passenger in a burst of unbidden energy. (I will not speak of this adventure in my home, now or in the future.)

I peer into the boathouses and the front yards of the island people, and note the manufacturers and horsepower of their docked motorcraft. I view the faded green and white stripes of their wooden lawn chairs, and wonder at how they mow their lawns so neatly. It seems odd to my gentle mind that in this idyllic playground, so far from city formalities, mown lawns yet exert their tyranny.

Some of the inhabitants are curious about my origins and I am drawn inevitably into fraternization with them. I continue on even to the dark back side of the island, and, then, to a littler isle just off its coast, where there is evidence of wood fire and beer drinking.

Back home my mother has not really noticed my absence. She and my younger sister are busy with the things domestic women seem to find endlessly fascinating — sewing and cleaning and discoursing on the minutia of their lives. They might smile condescendingly but without comprehension at the magnitude of my adventures. They might be alarmed.