Stories We Can Tell

Owed to Coach Bing Miller

"Deciduous Man..." Thanks, Shane Bullard for a little inspiration on this one. A few years ago, Shane was playing some good tunes here on social media...just strumming his 6-string and singing some great old country songs. I haven't heard much from him in a while. I sure hope he starts playing again. For now, he sits and thinks about the fight. The good fight. Emerging slowly from a darkness That got hold of him last night. Oh, whether you're a man of means or measure, Or just a wolf in black sheep's clothing.How pathetic to be stuck there In self-pity and self-loathing. And what we're falling for.But he rallies. Gazing out upon the Flag, he sings a line or two from Hag— "Today I started loving you again. And I'm right back where I've really always been…" His mind goes walking, across the Edmund Pettus bridge, Walking on the moon. Walking into death in Normandy that June. Through dust and fires, Across rivers running red with blood. Down deep, the music plays, Bad news on the doorstep, Bud. His faith returns against all reason. In spite of, in the face of, because of, and for the grace of, everything that's happened. Despite the wrecking force of greedAnd the weight of sorriness gone to seed,He still believes in goodness, though.Honor, strength, and courage—And other stuff, you know.In those who swim against the stream,Who refuse to think alike,Alice Paul and Lucy Burns waging hunger strikes. Woody Guthrie fighting fascists with two chords on his guitar.Samuel Clemens sitting, Cooly smoking a cigar While birthing Huckleberry Finn.Jefferson writes the Declaration while he plays the violin,John Coltrane and Einstein were probably there to hear it—Living out the mystery of the cosmos, The science and the Holy Spirit.And there's more.Let him tell you about Austin and the Bakersfield sound, And half a million on a farm, outside a little New York town, Giving peace a chance.Tell me, what's the matter with a bit of song and dance? In the mud, Dave.Jump in the mud.But then here comes the blues, trying to pull us underWith all the dark and somber news of pillaging and plunder.History talk— Of railroads and boomtownsAnd gold and silver riches foundFrom Comstock in NevadaAnd the Black Hills of Dakota—No more buffalo, James, no Lakota.And never mind the sixty bucks he paid to fill up on the way,He rails against the offshore rigsAnd spills in Prudhoe Bay.Now, we fight the Keystone lineAcross the Plains, today.The question comes, though not the first, Not about the vain attempts to curb our thirst, Just “Hey, what's the use of knowing all the worst?”“I don't know,” he just may say,And he probably doesn't know.He's not the lion anymore, But that won't stop the preaching, just listen to him roarWhen he speaks of schemes of thugs and parliaments of whores.He can't forget old Howard ZinnWho talked about the mortal sin,Of going along to get along, Giving up and giving in.The world has suffered most,Not from chasing Don Quixote's ghost, Not from deviance and defiance, But from unresisting, unthinking, obedience and compliance.Gazing out again upon the Flag, he hears those favorite lines from Hag,And he's right back where he's really always been…In spite of, in the face of,Because of, and for the grace ofEverything that's happened. Everything we've done.At the end of the day, he's headed home to his sweet dogs.The river on the left is calm and clear, there is no fog,He can see all the way across.Greeted at the kitchen door,By the Shepherd and the Labrador—Joyful and hungry. He feeds them well and then himself.And leaves the Irish on the shelf.He makes a cup of teaAnd sips it slow.Accompanied by birdsong, To Kristofferson's devil, singing low,A line from a song a brother taught him fifty years ago.“I don't believe that no one wants to know.”Gone, for now, is whatever got hold of him last night.His faith returns against all reason.A greater fool for any season.

Immanence-July 26, 2023

"Pool builders, Steamfitters, and Pilots"-a story about heroes and heroic tendencies...The old black man sat in a sliver of shade smoking a cigarette. He seemed puzzled by my fascination with his work. He must have wondered why this skinny kid was so intrigued by hard labor.“What's your name, jitterbug?” he asked.I told him, but I did not ask him his. He was the darkest man I'd ever seen. He seemed ancient, yet his body looked chiseled from stone.“Jimmy?” he said, repeating my name as he stood up slowly and climbed back down into the hole.The way they built swimming pools a half century ago was a sight to behold. It was grueling, monotonous work—especially in the Florida summer sun— but to witness its construction was watching an artist at work. I was amazed by the old man's meticulous efforts. His tender dumped a wheelbarrow full of fresh cement in the bottom of the hole, and with a square-point shovel, the man would start slinging it against the wire mesh on the walls. Two-thirds of the mud would slide down to the bottom, but never mind, he had already scooped up another shovel full and slung it, too, and of course, much of the cement slid back down. He continued the work for hours and this ten year old sat mesmerized. What seemed to be a terribly wearisome process began to take shape, as he formed the corners and edges with that square-point shovel, only stopping for a few cigarette and water breaks. I had no idea then about the dealing of cards and how they could be stacked against him. I didn't know it then, but he was teaching me a lesson I would not forget. I never saw the man again, but I've spent many a day digging my own holes, slinging mud against the walls...

Intro: "The Lightness of Jimmy Buffett" “Do you happen to know, He Went To Paris?” I asked her, on our first evening walk on the beach together. And before Kay could say anything, I started singing it to her as we strolled along, holding hands. And that was the beginning. Little did we know how this pirate troubadour/jester would serenade us as we moved through our lives. The last few days I've been thinking about Jimmy Buffett—his stories, his images. And a funny thing happened: his words started coming to me in bits and pieces—so quickly, I had to brush them away from my face. I wrote them down furiously and this little story came out it. His music has accompanied us while floating in the Atlantic, the Gulf, and the intracoastal waterways. …through celebrations, road-trips, trials and tribulations, and even a wake or two. We've been blessed by so many great voices in our lives, and we don't spend a whole lot of time ranking or rating them, but Jimmy holds a  special place. Kay and I both were Florida born and bred, and he provides a saltwater soundtrack, if you will—blue skies and ultraviolet rays. He broadened my cultural horizons. He taught me about the  magic, mystery and mischief in everyday life, spirituality in natural beauty, and liberation in laughter. His lessons on the art of “noticing” our surroundings pick  up where Hemingway and Alice Walker left off. For half a century Buffett's music has served as a visceral reminder to live in the world, as Muir said, and not just on it. With his words, he takes us with him, wherever he goes. From that night in Montana with no room for doubt, to the corner of Walk and Don't Walk, just sipping coffee from Café du Monde. A journey past the channel islands out into the cosmos, singing “Mother, mother, ocean,”  from a hymn he taught me at an early age. Now I've heard—and maybe you have too—Buffett's work described as an escape, but it's not an escape, exactly. He gives our spirits lift when we are too much burdened by troubles, worries, and obligations. Challenging us to try to live happily ever after every now and then. There is a lightness, in even his deepest work. “Follow in my wake,” he says, and so we do. Hope you enjoy... JM  

Guitar Story is something new about a few old friends: "And then there are the four guitars. He Strums and picks, Stirring sparks with stars." (a whole lot of folks show up in this one--from Tom Waits and George Jones to Coltrane...and a dog that howls at A Minor) He switched to the Les Paul electric And fired up another cigarette, Then played a cool and jumbled set— Cat Stevens, the Rolling Stones, Chili Peppers, and old George Jones.

This is the final draft of something I wrote, before the name came to me. I really like this version. You can find the finished work in "Sabal Palm," a compilation I recently published. Copyright 2023 by Jim McGinnis. Hope you enjoy it

Reading "Good Dog Loose," -for kids of any age- brought to life by Tamara's illustrations (she's pretty good) -available on Amazon

"I figure anyone who flies a great big flag can fly a great small one." -JM

With an introductory excerpt from Shelby Strother

The Paragraph    The other night, I stumbled upon some excerpt while searching for a quote, and it kept me  awake for hours—that one paragraph. Its author had made “a list of things they don't teach you in school.” He said that school doesn't teach you how to love somebody, or “to walk away from someone you don't love any longer,” or “how to know what's going on in someone else's mind,” or “what to say to someone who's dying.”   “They don't teach you anything worth knowing.” Now, that put a lot on my plate.   After a while, I began thumbing backwards through the pages of something I had written until I found what I was looking for. I finally fell asleep in my chair.   When I  awoke a few hours later, I still had that paragraph in my head. I couldn't shake it. I was troubled by the writer's choice to blame his social struggles—in or out of context— on school:                    the place which for some, is their only hope for discovering a thread in their existence between themselves and other humans.   Now I know so many of us have had difficult experiences in school, and I know many others who have found it to be their saving grace.   Perhaps the author's list had a shred or two of truth. School offers no instruction manual on how to love—school may well be guilty sometimes of hunting down spontaneity and killing it—but it can give us hints of what love is, and how it manifests itself a hundred thousand ways.   School can teach us the truth and power of love by showing us in a a thousand stories,  and through a thousand more examples of greater fools who drive to work each day with an intensity of commitment and attention. I can't help but hear the Allman Brothers: “Love is everywhere.” If you discover those things, I'm thinking you can figure out the rest. The “how” part will take care of itself.   My search had brought me to a verse halfway down page 80. I had spent years exploring the nature of freedom, and I finally discovered that in its purest sense, liberty is driven by love. The realization came from things I learned from books and songs, preachers and priests and nuns, dogs and grandchildren— Of course, I learned much  from my companion…my significant other. And   my  family, and friends…                                and school. From coaches and teachers, from strange kids who slowly became familiar by spending hundreds of days with me in my classroom. Some of whom gave as much as they took.  Now, school is rife with challenges and shortcomings. Cookie-cutter reforms can result in the creation of all things unremarkable…unexceptional. Responses to political pressures have given us spoon-feeding approaches to education…thus lowering our expectations.  Teachers and students alike have stood upon desks and challenged  these things for decades.       But One thing School does not teach us, dear author, is  weakness. Weakness comes from the world outside of school—from readers and writers of such paragraphs. School gives us a sad clear eye on the lies of the grown-up world. A world that claims to care for the protection of the innocent—granting    refuge in cages surrounded by the threats and dangers created by those obsessed with their own vulnerability.   In school, we learn the countless disguises of fear and the granite hardness of reality.  And despite the beigeness of institutionalized compassion and the madness of accountability and structure, school can teach many things worth knowing.  Most importantly, love. It does not lose its way in the politics of politics. And if in fact, we're able to discover that the end of our education is but the beginning of learning, well, then we're on to something. The best lesson is learning how to learn. So, I reject the paragraph and its claims… happily…    

"From the Left wing to the Right wing, Can't you hear us sing Resentment Songs? The politics of protest, From the Angry North and Bitter South And Wild and Crazy West. We like our truth only half-undressed." -JM

"It's Good to Know," "Disenthralled, " and "To the Ticking Clock"--all found on the pages of "Sabal Palm-Selected Writings" by Jim McGinnis

* you can find Seven Times in my new collection, "Sabal Palm." This one's about dogs...and humans. Hope you like it-- "...Spirit animals Lost and found, Hanging with me, hanging ‘round— Island dogs, Mountain dogs, And everything in between. They swim in any water—muddy, brackish, Blue, or green. Run joyfully through any weather— Beats all I've ever seen. They all love truck rides through town With the windows down, And boat rides to the spoils Islands...

An Interview with Jim McGinnis after his recent release of Sabal Palm--a compilation of poetry and stories—much of which he's written over the past two years. ...Reflections, musings, and writings from the ragged but ever-growing collection of this old Floridian.

es, there is a moral in there. Maybe the Pledge shouldn't read "liberty and justice for all" but rather "liberty and justice for each." So, it may or may not be my best work (I'm fond of it), but perhaps it contains my most important message. I hope it makes you think. "...once upon returning to a place Shared knowingly with other folk—Within sight of someone else's chimney smoke, I must willfully concede Limits to my independence. As did my ancestors, And so it goes with me and my descendants. As a member of the human race, I must decide to act in such a way Relevant to anyone With whom I share a space..." -JM

"...I was rescued for a while, at least By a recollection running around my brain— The image of a girl on a yellow bicycle Singing softly an old John Prine refrain.

a bit of an introduction for a lot of you, to one of the most creative souls I know—Tamara Fernandez. Her beautiful illustrations that help tell this little story we call "Good Dog Loose." But this is just small chapter of her story.

"Let me introduce myself. I'm your grandfather. I come and sit here at your grave beneath this ancient oak." I heard a guitar player say once, “It's all about the blues, man…we sing the blues so we don't have the blues.” But I think some blues are made to stick around, and I don't mind that. This is for my daughter, Meagan and her boy, Tiernan.

"Rootholds" dedicated to my mentor, Mr. Jim Lepper

From the Left wing to the Right wing, And some crazy folks in the middle, Can't you hear them sing Resentment Songs?

An unexpected encounter

"Jefferson on the Porch" I was sitting on the back porch pondering Eliot's treason, Reading just my second book, of this, the hurricane season. Again, it dealt with Jefferson—and yet another look At America. My attention shifted First, to the brown dog lying at my feet And then to all my summer chores That would take me out into the heat. But then back again to the great Virginian. Something kept me there in front of the fan Planted in my seat....

Where are we now? Where are we headed, blue-eyed son? Ah, we know the way somehow By dead reckoning—From distance and direction already traveled, From stories and songs already sung. Voices beckoning Around turns and bends far flung.

September 21 - Anticipation dances with memory.

Another Florida story--"a place gives up its nature only after hard usage" Hope you like it. -JM

Again, we need to remember the value of history. Tending to the Past revisited-With all the humility I can muster, I believe what is happening between us right now is a symptom of our national amnesia…or maybe worse, our cynical habit of cherry-picking the parts of history that serve us.

Unstuck There he was, out on the porch When I pulled up. CR didn't seem to notice me. He rocked away the summer morning With his German Shepherd pup, Slowly sipping on his tea With the spoon still in his cup. “You'll put your eye out,” I warned him But he didn't seem to care. He just patted the dog and sang a song To someone who wasn't there: Jeannie won't you lay with me And scratch my back a while, Whisper in my ear Sweet things that make me smile Ever since he quit the booze He sits out here and reads the news And worries about his country. CR flies a little flag on a stick taped to the lamppost, A Christmas wreath still graced the door. Finding nothing to fall back on, He drops the paper on the floor. “Sean,” he said, “They're taking books right off the shelf And I don't feel so good myself.” Staring out into the sunburned lawn, He kept on rocking, rocking on, still talking— “A bobcat killed the rooster down at Honest John's.” I wasn't sure of what to say or just how I should respond But I promised I would buy him a flag of decent size. He told me not to bother And wiped the water from his eyes. “I figure anybody who can fly a great big flag Can fly a great small one,” he said, Gazing out towards my pickup truck. “A little girl gave me that one At the Veterans Day parade. She sat down right beside me on the curb And drank her lemonade. We spoke of kindness, love, and beauty In the universe displayed.” Then he sang another song: Billy Pilgrim they will burn you, Just you wait and see. It seems you've made the list Of Moms for Liberty. Guilty of the heinous crime Of coming all unstuck in time, Billy, you've been a friend to me. “Is that you, CR? Coming all unstuck?” I asked. I recognized the line from a book He made me read in high school. “I guess,” he answered. “But Vonnegut was with your Pop in World War Two. A nightmare. No big deal, they said—just what they had to do. Billy, he won't work on Maggie's farm, And he sure won't study war no more. That's what got him banned.” I leaned on the post and nodded But I couldn't really comprehend. And CR sang his verse again. Then, for the first time, at least with me, He spoke of Vietnam. “They drafted you right out of school,” I said, “According to my Mom.” “Yeah, I won the lottery.” “Number 93, Spec 4, 25th Infantry.” He talked about Long Binh and Cu Chi, LZ's and IED's And losing two friends from Indiana. Sleeping in the rice fields To hear Charlie coming out, ‘Didi Mow!' The GI's shout— Dinki Dow and getting out of there somehow Before he turned 21. “I made six fifty a month. Sent all but forty of it home Except for the time I went to Australia.” “You went to Australia?” “Hell, that was 50 years ago. Everybody was talking Thailand, Said Australia was way too far For just a week on R&R. I had my heart all set on Sydney, though, Spent a week there with an older woman, don't you know.” He shook his head and laughed. I told CR that I once had a science teacher who served. A Helicopter pilot. He wore an eyepatch like a pirate. Scar down the side of his face. Talked politics at the drop of a hat— Called himself a Southern Democrat I forgot I remembered him. He was always walking around Swinging his old baseball bat. Offered no war stories—said he was just glad to be alive. One of the last to leave Saigon in 1975 Before it fell. It was quiet for a time while— Neither of us said a thing, Both of us sweat the sweat that summer brings. Afraid he couldn't hear the songbirds sing, CR refused to use the fan I gave him. He stared out again across the lawn. He kept on rocking, rocking on— It seemed to comfort him, But then he stopped. “She wore a yellow sundress.” “Who?” “The little girl with the flag. Dawn. She said her name was Dawn. I liked that name. Last week a shooter walked into her school And now she's gone.” “What?” “Along with 19 others, she is gone.” “What am I supposed to do with that?” I asked after a moment. “I don't know.” CR ra

Remembering the career of a great coach, great teacher, great friend.

He kept playing for a few minutes, then muttered something else about wide open spaces. Somebody needs to hold on—to remember. "The idea, the dark man said, is one we can't forget just because we can't live up to it." It's no load to carry.

Floridian is a story about a few folks who are dear to me--particularly Shelby Strother and Brian Karcher. Thank you.

A story about trees, among other things --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support

Something new. About dogs and men --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support

January 6-One day came-by Jim McGinnis --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support

A new verse about Noticing --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support

Picking up a Pat Conroy quote and running with it. Gratitude-- --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support

It's safe to say that our endings and beginnings have a tendency to get all tangled up. This is a good example--this work has 40 years in it. Perhaps just a few months in the writing, but many years in the making. I thought I finished it a few weeks ago, but no. I think it's finished, now and I hope it moves you in some strange way. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support

Thanks, Nancy Tillman for another great book. I uploaded this reading on YouTube so you could see the pictures, but maybe you can use this one to follow along with your book. Hope you like it --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support

I figured the best way I might serve my friends these days is to offer a little perspective, and someone who has always given me a refreshing point of view is Jimmy Buffett. Hope you enjoy it “Slack Tide” I've got a fish on the line But there won't be a feast We've got too much in common And he shall be released I've seen day turn to night And watched the changin' of seasons Things don't just happen They happen for a reason Maybe we'll meet in Exuma Or down in the Keys If I catch the right current Or capture a breeze Out here, conflicts and chaos completely subside Sailin' back to where I came from Back to slack tide Well, I think it's time to put some snorkels on Turn your feet into flippers Have some primal fun Dance with a stranger in a Mardi Gras parade Find an empty hammock, take a nap in the shade You can't hold back the moon Can't stop the ebb and flow The water still comes, and the water still goes It turns mountains to sand Gave ole Noah his big ride Then he dropped off his passengers Down, at slack tide I can't control anybody Other than myself Leave those half empty thoughts High up on the shelf If you cut me some slack I'll return the favor Open that bottle of fine rum That together, we will savor Well, we could use some quiet We could use a little calm Find the good in everybody Share that "one love" balm Watch the predators and prey Swim along side by side Beneath the blue sky and mangroves Down, at slack tide I wish the whole wide world could swim along at slack tide Swim along, swim along, swim along, swim along at slack tide Swim along, swim along, swim along, swim along --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support

For my grown kids, the grands, and all the chillers out there-- This one is a fable for all of us--"The Giving Tree" "a tender story, touched with sadness, aglow with consolation. Shel Silverstein has created a moving parable for readers of all ages." --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support

Epilogue Greetings! I'm Jim McGinnis. I recently completed a Back Porch Reading of Tending to the Past here on on my podcast, “Stories We Can Tell.” It's cut into 16 segments, so you can listen at your leisure. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TRHK3klX348 --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support

16 (of 16)-Final Reading-pages 265-281 of "Tending to the Past"--On Jodi, Storied, and So Much To Be Done...plus a bonus reading! It is part novel, part memoir, part collection of writings. . Thank you for listening. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support

15 (of 16)--pages 245-264 of "Tending to the Past"--On Hemingway, Chautauqua, and the Fog of Idealism...and of course, more conversations with Jodi. Another back-porch reading of a book I wrote a few years ago. It is part novel, part memoir, part collection of writings. . Thank you for listening. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support

Reading 14 of 16-pages 227-243 of "Tending to the Past"--On Culture, Heroes and More Conversations with Jodi.  Another back-porch reading of a book I wrote a few years ago. It is part novel, part memoir, part collection of writings. . Thank you for listening.  --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support

13 of 16--pages 209-226 of "Tending to the Past"--Biograph, Jodi, and A Few Things I've Learned--Another back-porch reading of a book I wrote a few years ago. It is part novel, part memoir, part collection of writings. . Thank you for listening. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support

Reading 12 of Tending to the Past "On Splendid Indifference and Bringing History Home." Another back-porch reading of a book I wrote a few years ago. It is part novel, part memoir, part collection of writings. . Thank you for listening. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support

Reading 11 In the Rain! Tending to the Past "On Free Ranging, Friends and Mentors, and Jodi." Another back-porch reading of a book I wrote a few years ago. It is part novel, part memoir, part collection of writings. . Thank you for listening. *copies of Tending to The Past are available on Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, and other fine establishments --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support

Reading 10 of Tending to the Past "On graduation, Mother Teresa, and Jodi." Another back-porch reading of a book I wrote a few years ago. It is part novel, part memoir, part collection of writings. . Thank you for listening. *copies of Tending to The Past are available on Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, and other fine establishments --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support

Reading 9---A conversation with Jodi/Essay on Freedom and Leadership-pages 135-152. It's a back-porch reading of "Tending to the Past," a book I wrote a few years ago. It is part novel, part memoir, part collection of writings. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support

Another back-porch reading of "Tending to the Past," a book I wrote a few years ago. It is part novel, part memoir, part collection of writings. Reading 8: "On Flags, Small Town Lament, and most importantly, Tom McIntyre." (pages 119-133). Thank you for listening. *copies of Tending to The Past are available on Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, and other fine establishments --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support

Another back-porch reading of "Tending to the Past," a book I wrote a few years ago. It is part novel, part memoir, part collection of writings. Reading 7 includes a chapter dear to me, called "Jackie and Jim," about my sister and brother in law. This episode--"Heroes, Mentors, and Driving the Loop" (pages 109-118). Thank you for listening. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/jim-mcginnis/support