I’ve been away from this progression through my old journals–my “Captain’s Log”–longer than I intended. Looking back, I see that I was chugging along fairly well through February. Then the pandemic hit, and I made no posts at all in March as I rushed up to spring break, went to Charleston for half of that week, and then had to come home early (because our favorite restaurants closed) to get my courses thrown up online for the remainder of the semester. I then made one more “Through the Years” post in April and one in May.

Now, here we are in August, and the pandemic is still going strong. Stronger than in March, actually. At least that’s the case here in east Tennessee. I’ve wondered if I should skip ahead and reboot with August entries, but I haven’t decided about that yet. If I could get my shit together well enough, I might be able to do two posts in a week. One coming up from the spring–this one gets into March–and one running along through the days we’re actually living.

I’ll think on that some more.

Captain’s Log: Stardate 022.878 (Tuesday, February 28, 1978)

Today was just like yesterday. I missed all of my classes and just stayed in bed. I’ll have to wait and see how I feel tomorrow before I decide about classes. I feel hot like I’ve got a temperature.

I guess I’ll get get some sleep now and try it again tomorrow. . . .

How unsettling it would be in this COVID-19 moment to “feel hot like I’ve got a temperature”!

I’m working on a novel that is based on the summer of 1979, which I spent in Europe with strangers-who-became-friends from all over the country. One of the things that I want to do with that novel is keep an awareness of the real world surrounding our fun and games and the actual events that took place in the world as I was living mostly carefree days in Europe.

Likewise, I’m going to try to find interesting things that go along with the lived days I’m transcribing from my journals. So, I’ll think about–I’ll google–what was happening in the world as I was doing this or that in my daily life.

Captain’s Log: Stardate 030.178 (Wednesday, March 1, 1978)

I finally got out of bed and went to classes today. I felt really bad this morning but I’m doing OK now.

Well, 48 hours from now I’ll hopefully be with Kelly, the good Lord willing. I pray that He’ll give me a good time down there. Now that I’m better physically I’m anxious to start practice again ’cause the Lord gave me these talents to polish and We’re gonna make it!!!! I think George and Betty are gonna meet me at the house tomorrow night for supper. . . . God gave you a mind, a body, and a soul so Be Yourself and at the same time be His

While I was living through this day–probably while I was sleeping through the night–Roman Wardas and Gantscho Ganev, Eastern European refugees, stole the coffin and remains of Charlie Chaplin from a Swiss cemetery and asked for ransom equivalent of $600,000 for the return of these. Chaplin’s fourth wife Oona refused to pay, saying that her late husband “‘would have thought it rather ridiculous’.” The grave robbers were caught in May.

Captain’s Log: Stardate 030.278 (Thursday, March 2, 1978)

Today the blizzard hit. That about cansells [sic] my plans for Greensboro this weekend.

I’m supposed to have a flute lesson tomorrow, but Dr. B probably won’t be here.

I think I may call Leesa and ask her out one night soon. . . . Ernie got a tape for accompanying the Alleluiah music . . .

As I’ve probably written in these pages before, Leesa was hard at work in Asheville’s Creative Hair Design and mothering Lane during these months when I was in my freshman year at Mars Hill College.

Captain’s Log: Stardate 030.378 – 030.578 (Friday – Sunday, March 3-5, 1978)

It’s been a nice easy weekend but I wish I could’ve gone to Greensboro. I reckon I’ll go over Spring break. I’m really not ready for another week so I’m gonna have to draw on the Lord heavily for this week. . . . George and Betty are in. . . .

On Saturday night the 4th, the Duke men’s basketball team–remembered as “Still Forever’s Team”–won the ACC basketball tournament, defeating Wake Forest 85-77. This was the first time the Duke men’s team had won the tournament since 1966. To my knowledge, the most recognizable name on that roster was Mike Gminski.

Captain’s Log: Stardate 030.678 (Monday, March 6, 1978)

Today has been a bummer but I’m still alive and trying not to complain.

Tomorrow night I’ll be going to Tweed’s for supper so hopefully tomorrow won’t be so bad. . . .

I have no memory of why this day was a bummer for me, but history tells us it was a greater bummer for Hustler publisher/pornographer Larry Flynt, who got caught in the crosshairs of a sniper in Georgia, a shooting which left him crippled.

Six trips around the sun later . . .

Captain’s Log: Stardate 8403.04 (Sunday, March 4, 1984)

I wish I wasn’t so lazy and would keep up with this as I should. Still, I guess when things are slow it seems futile to write it down. I [sic] going to try to do better.

1984 has been a very nice year so far. I’ve been home a few times, seen the folks in Knoxville, taken Geri out a couple of times (things are still feeling good there), and I’ve moved. I now live in the apartment that is upstairs in Earl’s office, where I stayed during my first prolonged trip to Nashville. It’s kind of tough living alone after Lynn and Cindy. We had such a good time. I still haven’t gotten settled in though I’ve been here for almost two months. I’ve stayed in the studio with Earl watching the progress of a new album he’s got on Bobby Lewis. They recorded one of my songs but it didn’t make the album as it was too pop to be consistent with the rest of the music. Still, just hanging out during the going’s [sic] on is a great learning experience. After that project was over Earl took Jim, JB, Danny, and me to Nassau, the Bahamas for some R&R before beginning my next album. It was a fun time between the ocean[,] the hotel life, and the casino. I got a sunburn the first day and didn’t get to spend as much time on the beach as I would have liked but it was still a great time. At one point Earl brought this hooker over from the casino for JB who is very straight and shy about girls and he ran. It was so funny! The girl’s name was Ivory, and she was from Milwaukee, Wi. When we returned from Nassau we went into the studio with musicians for a couple of days for rehearsals which went quite well. Tomorrow we begin tracks on “Blondie Goes Latin”, “Isabella”, “In Old Chicago”, “Can’t You Hear the Music”, “Waiting for the Night”, “The Friday Night Serenade”, “A Kiss in the Dark”, “Promises”, “A Rose for My Lady”, and “Madrid”.

My songwriting has fallen off seriously I think mostly because my mind feels so very cluttered with what I’m doing. I also feel very superficial, very shallow because I’m not staying as close to God as I want to. It just seems I keep my mind so occupied with nothing that it’s hard to think about anything. Then again I haven’t done enough travelling [sic] which always seems to spark me. Hopefully when this album is finished I’ll settle down and get some things done. I’m going to do better! I should say my prayers and get some rest now.

I have no memory of which song Bobby Lewis recorded. I do remember that Bobby’s schtick was playing the lute.

I noticed a couple of things about the songs set for the recording of my second album, which was to be titled Waiting for the Night. One is the presence of “Madrid,” a piano song that I wrote and, unfortunately, can no longer remember how to play. I think I actually had a complete song, but I’ll have to try to find the lyric for it to prove it. I don’t think I even have a recording of it.

The second thing is the absence of “Thunder and Lightning.” Those who know my music know how important that particular song has been for me. I think you’ll find it in the next cluster of entries that I post.

Captain’s Log: Stardate 8403.05 (Monday, March 5, 1984)

Today was a tough day, not really all bad or good, just tough. We started in the studio with problems this morning. Even though this caused bad vibes, we still got 3 good tracks down. I had a cloud hanging over me because of the vibes so I had a hard time finding good in anything but they must have been OK or we wouldn’t have left them. There was also a bad attitude toward the drummer we were using and I’m afraid Earl is going to fire him. It’ll be a shame because he is a good guy and a Christian. Maybe things will blow over tomorrow, who knows? Hopefully tomorrow will go much smoother technically, musically, and personally. . . .

Earl had hired the already-legendary Joe Osborne to play bass on Waiting for the Night. Our drummer for the sessions was a young guy named Mark Hammond. I don’t remember exactly what the beef was between the two of them, but it’s likely that it could be boiled down to style: Old School versus New.

Other players on the session were as follows: John Jarvis on keys; Brent Rowan and Greg Jennings on guitars; Jim Horn on saxophone; Thom Flora and Gary Pigg on background vocals. Of course, I played a little guitar and flute.

Two years passed. Waiting for the Night was never released.

Captain’s Log: Stardate 8603.02 (Sunday, March 2, 1986)

It is Sunday and I’ve had a good time. Church was good, work was good and dinner at Anita’s with my friends was also good. My situation in general still feels the same despite indirect word from Goodlettsville that things are finally worked out and on their way. My reaction is still like those to whom the boy cried wolf. Show me something real is what I’m asking for. I know I sound like I’m from Missouri but that’s all I can do right now. Cindy heard Dickey Betts play “Thunder and Lightning” in Asheville a couple of weeks ago. She said it was pretty good and it got a good reaction. I’m playing the Bluebird Cafe a week from tonight but as usual I don’t know what I’m going to do so I’m not very comfortable with the idea. I’m thinking I’ll start with “Fiesta” but I don’t know. All else is as usual except that I’m not writing right now. I’m not afraid though as I’ve learned that it’ll be back when the well fills back up so I guess I’m actually gaining experience and becoming more accostomed [sic] to my music taking a vacation now and then. There’s not much happening in my life for me to react to and I’ve written enough for now about pain, depression and loneliness. So there you have it.

So, two years on from my sense of panic about not writing, I’m okay with not writing, knowing that it’ll return–which it did. I remember that it was my friend Noel Hudson who passed on to me the idea–Mark Twain’s, I think–that the well will fill up and the writing will return. Anita, mentioned above, is Noel’s mom, and I’m sure the “friends” who came to dinner with me were Noel, T. Michael Scalf, and probably the women they were dating at the time.

Franklin D. Roosevelt spoke the famous words of my title during his 1933 inaugural address, as he began the first of his presidential terms. He stepped into the presidency at the height–or depth–of the Great Depression, when over thirteen million Americans were out of work and banks were closing. Roosevelt’s moment was not altogether different from the one in which we’re living, but his administration confronted it with a strength of conviction and daring that our current administration sadly lacks. We’re still awaiting the same level of resolve and creativity that slowly but surely lifted the United States of America out if its Great Depression.

Instead of policy to create strength and action in the face of the monstrous anxieties confronting us, too many of our leaders and would-be leaders are pushers of the fears that keep us awake at night and sitting up on the edge of our beds. Some of these fears are real, but many are only strategized and deployed for political gain of the scaremongers.

Yesterday (8/6/2020), Tennessee held its primary for federal and state elections to determine who will be on the ballot for Republicans and Democrats come Election Day in November. I don’t watch much live television, but in the little bit I watched during the run-up to this primary, I noticed that the nastiest political ads were largely among the supposedly Republican candidates for Phil Roe’s Tennessee District 1 seat in the U.S. House of Representatives.

Aside: I actually don’t like to use either Republican or Conservative for the politicians and politics doing business under these names. I have nothing against being truly conservative as long as it is forward-looking and not backward-looking, as long as it is compassionate in its thinking and policies and not meanly exclusionary and stingy to all but the wealthiest among us. My father and mother identified as Republican, as did I growing up. If I remember rightly, Dad even held on to being a Republican when changing to a Democrat in the Madison County of the 1960s and ’70s might have helped him get a local job; thus, he ended up commuting a good distance in order to find the work he wanted. But the party passing as Republican these days has absolutely no resemblance to that of my parents and their values.

The attack ads between the large number of candidates in what I’ll call the Trump Party, given that they all claimed him as their leader, were brutal. I was both surprised and not surprised that the only one actually labeled as dishonest and bent–Diane Harshbarger–won the primary. And it wasn’t a resounding victory, as she won with only 19% of the vote.

As expected, Harshbarger’s TV ads tend toward “fear-mongering,” racism, and the manipulation of these and so-called Christian principles. In another blog I ran across this description of a campaign video that she and her people titled “Salvation”:

Diana Harshbarger has a recent commercial that begins in black and white and . . . shows black people masked and committing violence. Then everything goes to color and a pretty little white family (daddy, mommy, and two kids) go skipping down a country lane. Racist? Yes. Christ-like? No. And yet as images of crosses and churches alternate in the visual, Harshbarger’s voiceover says, “Jesus is Lord, and his light fills our lives, even through the chaos, even as we’re attacked by our neighbor. His hand and our faith will guide us to salvation.” While she approves this message, I’m thinking that Jesus would not. This level of manipulation and drive to divide rather than unite leads me to hope that she suffers a resounding primary defeat.

from “Fear & Fear-Mongering” at River Jabbok Falls

I’m sure the blogger is disappointed with Harshbarger’s primary win, as am I. The “dose” of Tennessee fear and culture-war manipulation she’ll push over the airwaves and into the November election is to be dreaded. Dreaded, I say.

Blair for Congress!

Mom walked on from this life to yonder on Tuesday, May 5, 2020, just three months before her 89th birthday– which is today, Wednesday, August 5. Eighty-nine years ago, she was born in the Walnut homeplace on the 5th of August in 1931, also a Wednesday.

At some point in the study I do to teach Native American literature the best I can, I ran across the notion of “walking on” as a euphemism for death. I liked the sound of that–“walking on”–better than our culture’s more widely used variations of “passing away” (as gently poetic as that may sound), and so I think about the dead as walking on and use the phrase whenever I can. I like to think of my mom as having walked on, because it’s a particularly comforting image for a woman who was bedridden and unable to walk in the final years of her life.

I’ve thought a lot about her over the past three months, but I haven’t had the heart or the mind to write about the loss of her, other than the obituary that my brother Jerry and I wrote. (Read it here.) I don’t know that I have a whole lot of heart and mind to write about her now, but I wanted to capture something of our last few hours with her. I’m approaching my 62nd birthday, so I need to write it before I lose it in my own aging.

The last time I saw Mom when she knew me and something of what was going on around her was on Monday, March 9, just before all the nursing facilities shut down. And the last time I talked to her was, I think, sometime in the last few days of March or the first few of April, when she was able to get one of the CNAs at the Brian Center to dial Leesa’s telephone. She sounded good and in good spirits, but while Leesa made other attempts through April to have a CNA help with the telephone, we weren’t able to talk with her again.

During the evening of Saturday, May 2, Leesa and I hung out with Sam and Sharon Barnett, the only friends we’d regularly been seeing since March. We’d just returned home later that night when Jerry called–around 10:30, I think. The Brian Center had reached out to him to say that Mom wasn’t going to last much longer. Jerry was on his way there, and I hit the road as well.

I’ve never been in the presence of somebody whose death is expected any moment, but that’s where I found myself late in the night on May 2nd and into the wee hours of May 3rd. Mom’s eyes were open but unseeing, as far as I could tell. She had an oxygen tube in her nose, which was easing her breathing but not breathing for her. She might have made some semiconscious responses to our voices or our touches, but it’s hard to say.

I stayed until 3:30 AM on Sunday the 3rd and then returned home to Tennessee. Leesa and I went back later and stayed much of Sunday. Jerry and Cathy were there Sunday evening, and Jerry slept there overnight. I returned on Monday–so that Jerry could go home and rest–and spent most of the day. That evening Jerry came back and again spent the night.

Mom’s doctor told Leesa and me on Sunday that the loneliness of the quarantine had, she believe, hastened a few deaths, and she implied that this could be part of Mom’s condition. Then on Monday, the doctor had a story for Jerry and me about an experience from early in her career. A mix-up occurred with a dying woman’s last wishes, and she had been resuscitated when she and her family didn’t want her to be. As a result, she lingered in a senseless state for two weeks, until, eventually, one of the family members asked if the oxygen tube was keeping her alive. The doctors didn’t think so, but the family asked that it be removed anyway. The woman passed within five minutes after the tube’s removal.

Of course, a question hung in the air of Mom’s room, but then Jerry said he wasn’t quite ready to take such a step.

This whole time, from Saturday night into Monday evening, I tried to work. We were coming into final exam week at ETSU, but that didn’t make much of an impression me in the moment. I didn’t get much accomplished. But I thought about some of the tremendous reading experiences I’ve had that assured me we weren’t alone in what we were going through and helped me understand that the complexities of such a moment are common to our humanity. I thought a lot, for example, about this poem from Emily Dickinson.

We living have our expectations about the moment of death–that the veil between this world and the next will briefly part, that our loved one will be transfigured into something glorious and be able somehow to transmit that glory to us before departing, that in the transmission those of us left behind will share in that transfiguration. This is not to say that these things don’t happen. This is to say only that despite our expectations the moment passes–for most of us–in mystery, and we’re left, again, to rely our faith.

I’m sure many deaths are more difficult to watch than Mom’s, but I wouldn’t want to witness worse. (A friend of mine might be going through a worse death even as I write this.) When I returned to the Brian Center on Tuesday morning, the 5th, Jerry didn’t go home as he’d done on Sunday and Monday, having gotten, he said, better sleep through the wee hours of Tuesday morning than he’d had on previous nights. So, the both of us stayed there with Mom.

I hadn’t been there long when Jerry asked what I thought about turning off the oxygen. I said I was okay with it. Rather than wait for the doctor or call for a CNA, Jerry got up, walked to the machine, and turned it off. I thought I noticed some slight physical reaction from Mom, but nothing really changed. Her breathing was just as labored–against the proverbial death rattle–but just as steady as before.

I was thinking, This hanging on is mostly the work of biology, the body struggling to live as it is created to do. Although the medical personnel had been draining fluid out of her airways every few hours since Saturday, they’d stopped doing so during the previous night. Mom’s eyes were open but showing only whites. A gray-yellow mucus periodically pooled in her bottom lip, and Jerry and I took turns wiping it away. Jerry had a last box of tissues, and I had a series of washcloths that I was rinsing out to do this work. (I’m sorry to describe these moments, but I think it’s important to the meaning of what was coming.)

Nothing seemed to be changing in Mom’s condition, but Jerry was running out of tissues. Along about 1:00 in the afternoon, I rinsed out a washcloth and took my place on Mom’s right, and Jerry stood on her left with the last tissues. We took turns leaning in and gently wiping her mouth.

When we each stood with a hand on her shoulder, ministering to her together, the moment came. Mom’s breathing eased. Slowed. Stopped. Although I’d thought her being alive was merely the body fighting to survive, that moment transcended biology when the three of us were together. Maybe that veil parted so that others were present. Dad. Papa and Mama Reeves. I like to think so. But in that moment, really, the three of us were enough.

And then we were only two, as Mom walked on beyond the walls of the Brian Center, beyond our beloved mountains, beyond the moon.

Mom walked on . . . beyond.