BlitzBlog

It is the Day of Atonement! Behold! I am Your God! Repent Your Sins!

Nahh…… too, ….too …..Biblical.

Let's start over.

Oh Lawdy! I AM a Sinner. Let me reeeeepent and change my wicked ways!

Um….no. I love Gospel, but Southern Baptist Evangelicals don't usually observe Yom Kippur.

So, I'm sitting in Temple today. It's Yom Kippur, the most solemn, most introspective days in Judaism. I'm sitting on the bima
(the stage, or platform or pulpit where the lectern is and the Torah is
read from). There about 8 chairs up there, and I'm waiting for my part
in the service- I've been given the honor of carrying the Torah through the
aisles of the sanctuary after it is read and then returning it to the Ark
(the enclosed cabinet on the bima where the Torahs are kept when not in
use). I'm probably up there, sitting in one of the chairs for half an
hour or so.

The rabbi, Gary Loeb, whom I love dearly, and is one of the most
brilliant and naturally empathetic people I've ever met, has chosen
today to do an unusual thing- that is to “share” aliyot. (An aliyah, singular for the plural aliyot, is a blessing said before and after a Torah reading, which is split into 7 portions on Shabbat mornings, so hence there are 7 aliyot
each Saturday.  The rabbi has shared these aliyot sort of like
“shout-outs” to kindred spirits to the each person doing each aliyah.

For our immediate-past temple president, Bonna, the rabbi asked all
former members of our temple board to rise and receive his blessing
after the aliyah. 

For our friend Glorya, who is in her 70s (I think) the rabbi asked all grandparents to rise.

For another, the rabbi asked all the members of our temple's Bikor Cholim
committee to stand. Bikor Cholim translates literally to “visiting the
sick” but in my temple, the meaning has come to mean helping anyone who
needs it. From a ride to do some shopping for an elderly shut-in, to
well….read on.

When my son was hospitalized for his leg operation last winter, on 3 separate nights where someone from Bikor Cholim came to my
house and brought a full dinner for us to eat. They weren't huge
feasts, but they were all good, and they were all whole- and wholesome-
meals that my wife and daughter and I could sit down to and not think
about cooking or the stress of a family member lying in a hospital
bed. They were a welcome respite during a very dark time. We had
messages left on our answering machine volunteering rides for our
daughter, for whatever we needed. Basically, we were on notice, that there were
people there to help us.

But they were so much more than that. These simple acts of kindness
from people whom I knew, but not knew well, were so touching and meant
so much to me and my wife that words cannot express how much they were
appreciated.

So when the rabbi asked the Bikor Cholim committee to please rise, and
I saw these 20 or so beautiful individuals spread amongst the
congregation get to their feet, my eyes welled up, my throat got thick,
and I had to reach into my jacket pocket for my handkerchief.

I knew, even as I ate those warm meals back on one of those cold nights
in March, that I would some day have to repay these kindnesses. And today, on
this Holy Day, when one not only looks to God to ask forgiveness; when
one looks to others from whom they need forgiveness, or to forgive; one
also takes stock of oneself, and looks within and without to try to be
a better human being in the coming year. 

And while Zac still has another leg to be fixed, and probably won't be
done healing until June next year, I know that next week, I will be
giving our temple office a call to find out who needs some help.

Since I once wrote about my experience of being a part-time goat
farmer, I think it only fair to mention that at one time, I was also a
journeyman chicken farmer, also. Well, not so much farmer, as chicken
pet owner, as farmers raise the birds for either the eggs to sell, or
for the birds to ultimately become dinner. In my case, or more
accurately, my family’s case, our chickens had names, like household
(or backyard) pets, and I know I personally would have a problem
digesting an animal whose name who I knew.

The whole chicken
ownership thing started innocently enough. A friend of ours, from whom
Kate rented pottery space in his art and framing shop, had been raising
chickens for their eggs for a number of years. It was just a hobby for
Dennis, and at some point, in conversation, Kate, or possibly our
daughter Sarah, thought it would be cool for our family to hatch some
eggs and raise some birds for ourselves.

Dennis gave us a half
dozen of his eggs, not knowing whether any of them had necessarily been
fertilized, and hence, hatch into chicks, but we stuck them in the
cheap Styrofoam incubator we’d bought and diligently monitored their
temperature and turned them every so often as was recommended to us.

Within
a week, we watched all 6 hatchlings break their way through their
shells and step into the world. It was wonderful to see my 6 and 9 year
old kids get to witness the Miracle of Life first hand.

Over
the next year or so, we had some fits and starts in the whole process.
The first set of hatchlings grew into chicks, and after a month or so,
were large enough to put outside into the coop we had. (The coop was a
converted wooden playhouse that my kids had used when they were
younger.) Unfortunately, our next door neighbor’s dog, Rainy, whom we
loved like one of own, happened to be an amazing hunting dog, able to
catch squirrels and birds with ease, and once she got the scent of
those chicks,  she tore into the coop and devoured them like
poppers at TGI Fridays. I couldn't’t blame the dog, but shortly
thereafter, I was secretly glad when Rainy’s owners, who routinely
neglected her, decided to give her away to some relatives who lived
elsewhere.

So another round of chicks were hatched, this time
with only one fatality, this one at the hands of an over-zealous 6 year
old girl who thought one of the new hatchlings needed a bath right away.

The
surviving group of 3 birds grew over the next months, and during this
time, we went to the feed store and bought 2 more chicks, these two
being Bantams which, as their name would imply, are basically 2/3 scale
chickens.

The flock grew up, becoming adolescents over the
next few months, and we soon discovered that one of the Bantams was a
rooster, as his crowing proved. The rooster, was a small brownish red
bird, and he was aggressive and tough. He would defiantly stand between
any human and “his” flock. We decided to name him Ramón, as he reminded
us of one of those tough Latino boxers that dominate the lighter weight
classes.

The other Bantam was a lovely white bird, with a big
pink comb atop her head, and picture-perfect white tail feathers with
black fringes. She strutted haughtily among the larger Rhode Island
Reds like the Queen of The Ball. She conjured the image of a sassy
frosty blond waitress who called everybody “Hon,’” and we named her
Loretta.

A few months went by, and it turned out that Ramón was
not only tough, but very vocal. We soon learned that roosters don’t
just crow to announce the sunrise, but pretty much all day long. “Ehrr-ehrr-EEEhR!”
was a constant din in our back yard. So much so, that one Sunday
morning, when I had to go to the feed farm to buy supplies, I put Ramón
in a cardboard box, put it in the back of the wagon, and drove him the
10 miles to the feed farm. The farm had about 200 birds of all kinds
wandering about, and so, when I opened the hatch to load the feed into
the car, I tipped Ramón’s box over and out he went, into the midst of
his new flock. I’m sure he was happy to have so many new females to um,
introduce himself to.

The
following Wednesday or so, my phone at work rang, and I picked it up.
It was the Missus on the other end of the line. Now normally, Kate will
call me at work with a specific conversation in mind, i.e. pick up
something on my way home, or reminding me of a social commitment or
school engagement. But this time, she seemed to be just making small
talk. I could hear she was on the cordless phone outside our house, and
just after my curiosity was peaking, I asked her why she was calling.
She innocently replied, “Oh, no reason.”

Which was almost immediately followed by a familiar sound in the background. “Ehrr-ehrr-EEEhR!”

I took a confused breath, “Um, honey?…..What was that noise?”

I could hear Kate almost giggling on the other end of the line.

“What noise?”

“Did Ramón find his way home?”

“No. But there is some interesting news.” She hesitated, “Matt, Loretta’s a guy!”

Yes,
it was true. Loretta, the strutting frosty blond was in all reality, a
full-fledged rooster. It seems he’d kept his silence as long as Ramón
ruled the roost, but once Loretta was sure Ramón was gone for good, he
let out his crowing song. Luckily for us, Loretta was much more
discerning in his use of his voice, and we allowed him to live with us
for the rest of his life.

And so, this is how we came to own a rooster named Loretta.

Came across this link, and for anyone who loves the Blues, you gotta check it out.

The Blues Cruise 3 is now history; and as we have described in previous submissions, it was a lot of fun; one thing for sure we could not have asked for anything better. Okay, maybe the Temperature could have been
a few degrees’ cooler. At one point on Saturday as we climbed into our van, the temperature control indicated that it was a blistering 113 degrees. Surprisingly, we did not make use of the hotel pool; perhaps we thought of it as a potential cauldron of blues cruiser stew.

Over the years I’ve visited a lot of places with vibrant music scenes; Cities like Austin TX, and New Orleans LA. They have a lot of great music venues and attract a fair amount of tourism because of it. New
York, Philly and LA have a lot of great venues for music also, although I believe that they are more noted for other things that attract the tourists. Sadly a few places that are identified with music are somewhat disappointing to me, Memphis and Nashville in particular. Both cities have a storied musical history and they have the music venues available; but they seem a bit contrived and a whole lot sterile. It’s not that the music isn’t great rather the sense that some soulless corporate entity has taken control and replaced the authenticity with a fairy tale version of authenticity.  I’m not some misguided purist who thinks that a dilapidated Beale St. would be better than a clean one. It’s just that they could have done better with it and not made it so damn touristy.

Speaking of purists, I ran into one while getting ready for the T-Model Ford performance on Saturday near the Riverside stage. He was a middle-aged man from Memphis and a nice gentleman, but he had very strong beliefs about what he considered to be real Blues and real music for that matter. Now I respect everyone’s opinion for the most part but I will never truly understand the notion that music has to be played a
certain way for it to be legitimate. He expressed his displeasure that an artist who would incorporate Hip-hop beats to Blues music was somehow defaming it. We went back and forth on this issue as I not only
defended the artist, but also would encourage more artists to incorporate other elements and genres of music into the Blues form. My basic point to him was that even the most basic changes to the music
were not only viable, rather necessary to its survival. Muddy Waters plugging in his guitar going from acoustic to electric radically changed the music. He replied that was necessary to be heard in the larger Chicago clubs, and thus it was okay. My point was that it changed the fundamental structure of the music and under his theory should no longer be referred to as Blues.

We live in an era of unprecedented blandness in mainstream music, and I do not want to go into a mindless rant about the sorry state of affairs that music seems to be mired in today. There is in fact plenty of great
innovative music being made today; it just doesn’t get played on mainstream radio. Even worse it rarely gets any media or press coverage. Be that as it may, I find it hard to believe that when someone does something that does not follow the script or goes outside the bubble to create a new sound would be considered a blasphemer and thus demonized for being creative.

I guess Bob Dylan should not have plugged in at Newport or Jimi Hendrix should not have employed feedback or Les Paul should have left well enough alone before he bastardized the acoustic guitar. I’m glad I know better than that and I love the fact that music is forever evolving. The need for new voices and new idea’s is vital for music of any kind to survive and flourish. When the Rolling Stones and the other British
bands came hear in the early to mid sixties, they covered a lot of the old blues classics that had been forgotten here in the States.  They put a new spin on the great songs of Willie Dixon and Elmore
James. They not only revived the music, but the careers of the artists who created the music decades earlier. The artist’s who are playing with the form today do so with the utmost reverence, even if they
incorporate Hip-hop beats or whatever other influence they deem necessary to create great music.

Okay I’m going off my soapbox now, I would like to take this opportunity to say thank you to some of the folks who made our visit to Clarksdale so special. Before I do I want to make mention of my traveling companions who mean so much to me. Ricochet, Doc, Deacon and Gas-can are all incredible people who make the Blues Cruisers a special group of world-class gentlemen. I am a fortunate man to have friends
like these guys and I want to tell them that I appreciate every moment shared with them. The laughter and joy that each of you bring to my life is most precious and I want to say to you all; Thank You.

And Now without further adieu; my deepest appreciation and Thank you to –

David “Dub” Dunavent: Dude, I can’t thank you enough; you made this
last trip so special for us all. You’ve got real talent young man and
one day the world will hear you.

Tater: You are the “Man” sir, no doubt about it. You bring pure joy to your performance, nobody can ask for more.

LaLa: You are our favorite woman in Clarksdale; you play with such passion and fury that it boggles the mind. But you owned me with your solo performance at Ground Zero, and that was with your voice. I just
listened to your Demo CD You touched my heart

Ronnie Drew: Blues town Music is a must do when we visit, you’re the reason why.

Ellis: A visit to Clarksdale is not complete without seeing you dude. Besides we need you, Must have Hat sanctification.

Marylyn Fontenot: Thanks for allowing us to come on WROX and making us feels at home there. That was a whole lot of fun and you made it that way.

The Depot; Charles, you and your entire staff could not have been any nicer to us. We ate there four times; the food was fantastic, and you made us feel so welcome. We are all wearing our Depot T-shirts with
pride.

Daddy Rich: Your music is infectious, your lyrics are even more infectious and you are an incredibly talented artist. The blues cruisers are going to spread the Gospel of Daddy Rich. Thank you also Rich for being so nice to us.

Nellie & Dorothy: Wow, Wow, Wow, Wow,!!!!!!!!! Can I get another Wow!!!! God bless you both. Thank you.

Miss Sarah; You, are a legend in the Delta, now we know why. We love you Miss Sarah, Thank You.

Dan and staff at the Comfort Inn: We can’t thank you all enough for the personalized care that you gave us. You went above and beyond in making sure that we were safe and comfortable. I gave you guys the highest
marks on any Hotel survey I’ve ever done. And Dan, you’re friendship and kindness to us meant a whole lot and we truly appreciate it.

Big T Terry Williams: Big T, you should be the natural heir to B.B. King and Buddy Guy. You have the talent, the stage presence and understand the legacy. I can think of no one else more suited and talented enough to carry the tradition forward. You also have a reputation of giving your all, not just in performance but to your
community and to the other musicians you have given guidance too. I also want to thank you for your kindness to all of us since we met you four years ago at Ground Zero.

I hope in my haste to end this that I did not leave out anyone, if I did it was due to my sometimes-poor memory.

This is my final entry on Blues Cruise 3 and I hope anyone who read my stuff enjoyed it. If you are new to the Blitzblog please continue to read Matt’s great work as he manages to stumble his way through life with a silly grin on his face. I would also encourage anyone who would like to participate and join us on our next visit to Clarksdale, to get in touch with us, as we would be delighted to have you along.

I come from Clarksdale
Straight down from Memphis
Just South of Elvis
In Mississippi
All across the nation
Station to station
Like an education
Talking the way I feel

Daddy Rich

Mr. Blue Frog
August 2007