The Wabash Cannonball

Grief is deep stuff.

I visited our eldest church member today in his assisted living apartment. When I go to see him he treats me like my Grandma Riggins used to: as a living show and tell item. In the nicest possible way. I must be introduced to everyone. I must be praised to the highest heavens to everyone.

Wait. Why does this bother me?

As we walked down the hall we came across a church group rehearsing their musical program. He drove his walker right into the midst of them and raised a hand until they stopped. "Do you know my pastor?" he asked. They were gracious. Then we went to his apartment and talked about fish. He had a long and distinguished career as a maritime biologist. I find his stories fascinating. But time passed and I had to leave. As I opened his door in came the sound of that church group singing The Wabash Cannonball. Tears sprang into my eyes.

My father sang that song to me when I was a little boy. I remember my father's voice. He loved to sing and he sang well. He had a wide repertoire, from hymns to old jazz standards to Roger Williams to his clear favorite, Spike Jones' immortal version of the William Tell Overture and its main character: the horse, Feetlebomb.

The Wabash Cannonball is about a train speeding through the countryside. For me, it has become a song about my father and my Hoosier heritage. I still observe a tradition he initiated, singing Back Home Again in Indiana every time I cross the state line back into the Promised Land, where the Wabash River flows. Thanks, dad, for singing to me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0QXyYK1FAU

Fathers and Fathers-In-Law

Tonight I feel like the salami in the Sandwich Generation. I have been sliced about as thinly as I can take. I am a Presbyterian minister. I have listened to a long string of folks vent about getting caught up in family crud. I admit I have not felt enough empathy when they complained about how twisted their relations can behave under family stress. Now it's my turn. Whee.

On a brighter note my father-in-law sent us a new poem. He writes free verse. Always the traditionalist, my idea of good poetry involves quaint notions like rhyming. Oh, and an actual theme. But Jerry's work squirms its way past my defenses. I like it. He makes me think. He uses far fewer words than I do. (Our son Dan does the same with his poetry, though sometimes his work is too deep for my tired brain.)

Jerry's new poem consists of advice from a grizzled veteran of life. He pulls no punches. One line says something like, "Work on your faith or quit pretending." But he also keeps his sense of humor. I know of very few men his age who can get away with references to, ah, achieving intimacy with their wives with such believability. But I believe him. I would believe him even if I weren't hoping for an inheritance.

I really needed a boost from my family. Thank you, Jerry. Thank you for these 35 years(!) of loving me--and many others--in your deep, quirky, utterly reliable and believable way. Men like you show me the way.