Looking Forward From Behind

by Stumblin' Jimmy Watermelon

ovember is one of those marvelous ‘months of tradition”. Within its days, Thanksgiving of course, is the most obvious to be celebrated across our land. That’s the ‘Big Honey” of the month, if you will. This is the time of the year we lean toward the more local and selective endeavors. There’s that long awaited first fall oyster roast or fish fry that brings in most of your neighbors. Then we get down to those more nitty-gritty ‘house to house” traditions.

My wife, I call her Ghee, has started one. “Just for me”, she says (as in ‘me”, her husband). She calls it, “Filing Follies” and it involves me, with her help and unsolicited direction, sorting through and discarding all the seemingly thought provoking, yeah life inspiring bits of printed paper articles and magazines that I tend to habitually collect. Most of it has gotten bundled up and set outside, filed for the Sanitation Engineer to try his luck at. There is one piece however, one long lost hand written page, that I have held onto and that’s the next part of this story.

There, deep amidst all the clutter, I found the lyrics to a song I had written long ago. It got me to reminiscing, thinking about the old times and the now times. These were the lyrics:

“Inanimate Wisdom”
Drab scraps of dirt leather that my feet go inside.
What once kept me warm are now broken and dried.
Bet they could tell you all the dreams that I’ve tried
And the ones that have left me down on the roadside.

Sing to me, old blues’d out shoes, say goodbye.
You’ve worn your time well on your soles and your sides.
Now deep peeling blisters are going to town
All over your mellow aged skin I have found.

I’ve walked so many miles, down so many roads
These once tough old ‘ski-boats” are covered with holes.
I’ll bet they could tell you how humanity rose.
They just don’t seem to talk much to those they don’t know.

Sing to me, old blues’d out shoes, say goodbye.
We’ve wandered forever, as the wind blows a fly.
From lowland to mountains, down deep city streets,
Kicked up all the back roads that we ever could meet.

All things must pass friend, I guess it’s your turn.
Your soles are so thin on hot pavement they burn.
I’m getting restless to loosen the load.
It’s time that I leave now to find a new road.

Sing to me, old blues’d out shoes, say goodbye.
You’ve shuffled these two clumsy feet, helped them by.
As a learning young man walks, away down the hall
Inanimate wisdom rests, hung from the wall….

As roads go, I know this year has seemed to take a hard turn into those lost woods, but here is my proverbial stretch in thought and the baling wire that holds it together. It all comes back to where we began, November, traditions and giving thanks. First of all, we have a tradition in this country of creating our own hope, of drawing up that resilient nature that resides however deep. We should all share in a Thanksgiving of our ancestors passing that along. In a year of, arguably, the worst hurricane season on record, rich and poor alike have met in a profound soulful equality of lost homes and lives. In times like these thanks are measured and found in more humble things.

For some it is a pair of old worn shoes to protect and carry one to dry ground. To some it is a single keepsake, though long forgotten, now cherished, saved from the rubble. To all that survive, there is another sunrise. Such simple things suddenly hold such great meaning. November is the last month of this storm season, and we can certainly all offer up our Thanksgiving for that.

On a closing and lighter note, I am myself thankful that, along with so many other things, from the life in the lyrics of my old song I found a new path and on it, Ghee. Oh yes, I am also hopefully thankful that my editor as seen fit to publish a song that never before saw the light of day….