Thoughts On Aunt June, A Better Soul Than I

If you’re fortunate and willing, you will meet people—common, everyday people with no agenda, no self-serving intentions, and no motivations other than curiosity and care—who will leave an impression on you that runs so deep, so intense, and so profound that you have no control over how it shapes you. It just will.

The impression those people make on you will weave itself so decisively into your core, you will be changed, even if you can’t fully realize and understand it. You will be new, and you will be better for it.

If you’re fortunate enough in your time in this world, you will meet those people who will cause you to stir. Who will cause you to question. Cause you to look hard within and question your intentions. Cause you to take inventory, size yourself up, and make some hard conclusions.

If you’re fortunate, you will meet individuals who will cause you to see your surroundings in a new light. Who will make you think in ways you didn’t know possible. Who will present you with insight and information you didn’t possess. Who will ask about you. Take interest in you. Hold you accountable to yourself and others. Who will exchange honesty. Who will teach integrity. Who will invest in you because that’s who they are: Others come first, self comes last.

When that happens, if it happens, it’s redefining. It’s integral. It’s authentic. It’s intoxicating.

When it happens, you aren’t left the same. You’ve been remolded. Reshaped. Reformed. Reinvigorated. You’ve been lifted up and made more powerful. More complete. More competent. More responsible. You’ve simply been made more.

June Preston—dear, sweet Aunt June to my family—is one of those people for me.

We were introduced through my wife, her niece. We bonded initially over discussions about religion. She’s a devote Catholic and practices her faith with conviction and honor. She believes because it’s in her heart to. It’s in her mind to. It’s her calling to. It’s her plan and destiny. That made me believe in her. Later, it made me believe in myself.

We bonded over stories of her time in Philadelphia and Memphis, places she lived and raised a family in.

We bonded over our mutual fascination of the South, a place she went to as a girl during the summers to spend on her grandparents’ farm, and the lessons she learned there, which touched me decades later.

We bonded over our mutual love our children, her love for mine and my love for hers.

We bonded over our love of nature and sunsets and sunrises. Of mystery. Of the magic of beauty. Of our explainable attraction to nature’s gifts.

We just bonded. Because I was fortunate. Because I was willing. Because I needed her in my life, and I didn’t even know it.

Now, she’s in her last days, surrounded by the family she’s loved and who have loved her. I know in her heart and in her mind, she’s prepared. Her faith has readied her. Her belief and her love have made her brave and able. Made her deserving for what surely awaits her lovely soul.  

I’d like to take her hand right now. In these divisive, bitter times, when my anxiety is at its worst, when my faith is bottoming out, when my discipline is constantly being tested, I’d like to take her hand.

I’d like to hear her sweet voice circle those delicate but confident words around my ears one more time.

I’d like to let her infectious laugh empower my spirit like it always has.

I’d like to let her in to investigate my opinions, my thoughts, my faith.

I’d like another chance to sit down over tea and learn from her.

I’d like to give her time.

But I don’t really fear death. And I don’t fear that the years ahead, when our words and lessons and backyard conversations watching the sun dip into the horizon are no longer possible.

I don’t fear that our bond will fall apart. We toiled together to construct it. During our visits in person. During our conversations delivered digitally. During my own moments alone when a sunset or sunrise floored me so complete with its presence that it demanded I think of Aunt June and wonder if she’s seeing what I am right now, knowing if she was she’d be as humbled and grateful as I.

I don’t fear that time and the unknown will even chip the bond in the slightest, let alone cause it to crumble.

I don’t fear this because I’ve been fortunate and willing. To meet her. To allow her in. To embrace the impression she carved in me. It runs too deep and true and long to dissipate or disappear with time.

I don’t fear death or time because I celebrate what she gifted me, which regrettably was far, far more than I gave her.

For that I celebrate her and hold her up high.  

I’ve been so very fortunate.  

Greg Allman & The Five Songs That Matter Most To Me

I really liked Greg Allman, particularly as a musician (a pretty underrated one, for me). The truth is, though, I didn't love his individual work by any stretch.  I did, however, very much love the Allman Brothers. Very much. And he was a big part of the fondness and reverence I have for the band. Greg Allman was also very much a renegade, and I like people who live according to how they see fit.

Southern Rock was popular when I was discovering music on my own as a kid. Everyone liked Skynard. AB, though, seemed on another level. Beyond the music, which speaks for itself, they had several things going on right away that I liked. One was possessing two guitarists on equal footing. Two styles that differed but blended and talked to one another perfectly. In other words, making music.

Another was they played the blues. And they played it exceptionally well. Personally, along with Cream, The Stones, and Zeppelin, the AB opened the proverbial door to the blues for me. Opened me up to new information that I had to travel to the past to get. What is this "Statesboro they're talking about?" I remember thinking when listening to "Statesboro Blues." Then I'd set out to discover, which led me to the masters who I've been listening to since. The blues, for whatever reason, grabbed me by the throat when we met and said, "Here it is, baby! This is the music you'll always listen to, now get to studying!" Without exaggeration, Greg Allman is partly responsible for that gift.

The AB also got me stoked because they had two drummers. "Is that even allowed?" Damn. Alright then, playing by their own rules here. Nice.

Finally, the AB got my attention way back when simply because it had brothers in the same band. For whatever reason, I've always liked the idea of brothers and sisters in the same band. CCR, The Black Crows, The Kinks, Van Halen, AC/DC, The Breeders, and so on. Right now, I can think of scads of three- apnd four-piece sister groups that will haunt you in a good way with their harmonizing. Siblings in a band either works gloriously it seems or ends in disaster. The AB were pretty glorious.

What I like about Greg and Duane Allman was that they looked cool, they looked different, and they never seemed to stop looking like they existed in a different, simplier era. Read about them, and you'll learn about a bond that existed on a lot of levels. I envy that.

These are the five songs I'll always tie to Greg Allman:

1. "These Days." He didn't write it, but it was always his song.

2. "Whipping Post." Soul bared. I don't know how else to describe it. Epic in every sense.

3. "One Way Out." The Allman Bros did as much to progress the blues as any American band early on, I'd argue. I wish more people knew about men like Sonny Boy Williamson.

4.  "Melissa." The essence of really great Southern rock: Musical mastery, sincerity, a classic melody, and vocals for days.

5.  "Statesboro Blues." Truthfully, I listen to this primarily for the guitars, but this is my favorite lineup of this band, one I truly love and one Greg Allman was part of. .


,

My New Old Hometown

As of mid-December, the place I’ve called home is Ashland, NE. From 1967 to mid-1985, this is the same small town where I lived. Where I grew up. Where I left. At 18, I couldn’t wait to get out. Couldn’t wait to escape. Couldn’t wait to take any of the roads that led to Highway 6 and beyond. To head east or west. North or south. To see what I could find. To break out. I knew I had to. 

Not because I held any deep resentments against my place of origin. I didn’t. It was the opposite really. I knew what I had there. At 18, I just hadn’t learned to appreciate it yet.

In many ways, my upbringing was idyllic. Small town parades. Friends to play with up and down the block, and the block past that one and all the ones past those. Swimming pool friends in the summer. Picking green apples off trees. Back trails that cut precious minutes off the walks required to get anywhere and everywhere.

Fishing in the creeks. Paper route in the morning. Bike pedaling all day long. A dime store on the corner. A bowling alley downtown. The Gateway Inn for a hamburger on a Friday night.

Train tracks running straight through town. Sledding hills spilling downward. Climbing trees standing tall in the park. Narrow, cracked streets to exhaust steps on at night with a gang of friends. Schools dances with sweaty palms. Girlfriends to plot impossible dreams with. Country roads to kick up dust.

It was pre-cable television. Pre-Internet surfing. Pre-mobile phone distractions. Use what you had to pass the time and not pass the time lamenting what didn’t. And freedom. So much freedom. Probably too much. Probably undeserved. But essential to being really born and really coming alive.

And still, despite the innate protection and security and comfortableness that a small town can pour over its people, there was a sense of isolation I tasted in the air. A bubble that formed. A naiveté I choked on. About the expanse that existed outside the streets that reined in the familiar. About the ideas, perspectives, possibilities, and scenery I was temporarily exposed to whenever we ventured beyond those imaginary boundaries. That newness spoke to me. Strongly. Clearly. Purposely. I wanted to see more. Hear more. Feel more. Explore me. Find more.

So, I got out. I embraced the unfamiliar voices. I welcomed the new faces. The new streets. The new buildings. The new ways of identifying and solving problems. The new conversations. New choices. New dangers. New challenges. New obstacles. New intentions. New possibilities. And I liked what I saw.

But I always kept coming back. Always kept tabs on the town my parents never left. The town many relatives and friends never stepped away from. The town I never stopped feeling a kindred spirit with. The town that brought temporary peace whenever my car wheels touched the faded red bricks that line Silver St. Bricks that better men than me lined one by one.

Over time, a town takes on a certain character. Within you. Within the people who live there. Within the people who visit. Within the people who stay and within those who leave. That character takes on a different form for each soul. A different shape. It tastes slightly differently. It beckons and repels slightly differently. For some, the character drips sadness. For others, that character represents pride. For some, it’s innocence that dominates. For others, that character signals stagnation. For others, promise. For me, the character of my hometown has always sung peacefulness. Calmness. An authentic silence. A welcomed silence. Silence in which to think. Resolve. Partake. Retreat. Rethink. Retool. Re-establish. Revel in a pace more desirable. Accept that there’s less availability but fewer distractions. For me, the character of my hometown encourages me to just be.

Nothing stays the same, nor should it. My new hometown isn’t the same old hometown I left as a teenager. Some names are the same, but many are not. There’s greater diversity. More businesses. More choices. More wealth on display. Everything is bigger. Everything is smaller. Everything feels alien but simultaneously well-known.

And then there are the finer details. To uncover. To circle around. To appreciate. At 18, the finer details escaped me. I was too busy plotting my path to reach what awaited outside to notice their presence. That’s no longer the case. Now, the finer details are vivid and entirely apparent. And they’re welcomed.

I’ve been thinking some about Thomas Wolf the past few months. About separating reality from nostalgia. About weighing fond remembrances against what’s really best. Best for myself. Best for my family. Best for the future. But I’m finding verification in the details. The finer details. The kind of details that existed all along. I just had to grow up, leave, and then come back to notice them.