Johnny Cash
You can’t go to Nashville without going to the Country Music Hall of Fame. The same can’t be said of Graceland in Memphis. Graceland I found to be a tacky, commercial enterprise cashing in on the King. Elvis’s conservators emphasized the trappings of his wealth but did little to tell you about the man. Unfortunate.
You may find this hard to believe. I have come to appreciate country and western music along with rap. In fact, I would go so far as to say I like both. Both are quid essentially American genres and conveyors of truth. The performers featured in the Country Music Hall of Fame by and large came from hardscrabble roots. (The same can be said of the rap stars.) The exhibits showcased a broad array of artifacts ranging from flamboyant cowboy boots to custom cars. One car even had chrome pistols and rifles attached to the hood and trunk. Indeed, the exhibits were eye catching but never obscured a star’s own personal journey. The hardships and obstacles the musicians had overcome were very relatable. Over the course of the afternoon I observed spouses squeezing their partner’s shoulder or hand as they read through the display’s descriptive placard or lingered on an artifact. I think they saw or read something that evoked an emotion that forever will remain a mystery to me but was understood by them. I would never have expected emotions to be triggered by a museum honoring musicians.
Halfway through the Country Music Hall of Fame, there was a small theatre featuring on film the music of country and western music’s biggest legends. Toward the end of the film, Johnny Cash performs Hurt. Most of us watching choked up and dabbed our eyes as he completed the ballad. Haunting and soulful, it reminded us that we are imperfect, we do fail one another and ourselves. But it, also, left me motivated to do better. A very timely message following my civil rights walk earlier and my upcoming visit to the National Civil Rights Museum.
Here is the YouTube link to Hurt.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FywSzjRq0e4I
You Don’t Say
150 people move to Nashville daily. This city exemplifies the “New South.” None of the 12 Uber drivers I had, had been there more than 6 years. 3 were retirees who relocated from California, Boston and Washington, DC. An Ethiopian driver had emigrated to San Diego first. Seeing no opportunity to buy a house in San Diego because of out of reach housing prices, He and his wife decided to move to Nashville. He works 3 jobs. His wife is a stay at home mother devoting her time to their two young children. They are in the process of purchasing their first home. Who says immigrants don’t buy into the American dream. This summer he will be taking his citizenship exam. I’m confident he’ll make a wonderful citizen.
There are Bird scooters everywhere. The ones not being used are carelessly left on sidewalks hampering easy passage. Fearlessly, riders dart in and out of traffic without headgear of any kind. While I was there, a student was killed traversing the street without any head protection. He sustained a head injury leading to his death. This was not the first death by head injury. Perhaps a better name for the Bird scooters would be Headless Horse(man). They are dangerous and a dumb idea for city streets.
The country environs surrounding Nashville are attracting a new generation of communes that first appeared in Oregon, Washington and California two generations ago. They appear to be exhibiting all the same organizational characteristics and alternative expressions of industry as did their early forerunners. The lure, affordable land and plenty of water.
A Brother from Another Mother
Our first “black president,” as Bill Clinton was sometimes referred, spent his early years in the modest home of his grandparents. They lived at the corner of Hervey and Division Streets in Hope, Arkansas. In Sag Harbor, NY, Division Street traces the border separating the Town of East Hampton from the Town of Southampton. In the days of Jim Crow, Division Street separated African Americans from whites in southern towns. A lot of Southern towns to this day continue to have Division Streets. Hope is one of those places, evoking a not so subtle reminder that there were two legally separated worlds at one time. On my way to Dallas, I stopped in Hope after first touring the Clinton Library in Little Rock. I had the entire house to myself as the only visitor that morning, allowing me to sit on the staircase overlooking the living room and imagine Clinton’s boyhood and identify similarities in our youth.
Both the house and Hope reminded me of Napoleon, Ohio where I grew up. The houses were similar in size, modest and neat. Both towns were populated with hard working people earning their livelihood from agriculture or factories. Being the same generation as President Clinton, you would expect other similarities. He liked the Hardy Boys as I did. His meals were served on Fiesta-ware, as were mine. Most importantly, he built enduring friendships with individuals he met when he was young as I have. There was one stark difference, Napoleon had no African Americans. Make no mistake, there was prejudice and in some ways was more problematic and deeper set.
So, I asked the ranger what he thought molded Bill Clinton into the inclusive leader that he was to become? His grandparents, he answered. They crossed Division Street and made friends with their African American neighbors and extended a helping hand to those in need. They set an example early for Bill to follow. I thought of my sister and her 20 years of dedicated service to indigenous people. My mother was a volunteer for the American Red Cross for more than 50 continuous years. Even giving back during the dark days when my father became disabled and she assumed the breadwinners role. Setting an example is powerful and believe my mother’s example influenced my sister. Powerful examples that are reinforced become the good patterns passed from one generation to the next. Sitting on the steps, I thought about Chiquita and the people I met in Memphis. Forgiving hearts passed down generations. I came to appreciate our 42nd President even more than I had before. Not only did he embrace his grandparents example, he also made it his life’s duty to live by the example on an international stage.
Little Rock preceded my visit to Hope. I was surprised to find a very nice city of 200,000. The street life was young and vibrant. My hotel was within walking distance of the Clinton Library. The museum could either be reached by way of a treelined boulevard or along a manicured river path. With torrential rain preceding my arrival, the river was expected to reach record level highs cresting 42 feet above normal levels. While I could still reach the museum by taking the path, I decided the path was best left to the snakes seeking refuge from the rising water. As an epilogue, after completing the library tour, I went downstairs to checkout Cafe 42, the museum restaurant closed on Sundays. Detecting my curiosity, a maintenance man offered me an exclusive tour of the restaurant. In the course of the tour I learned two snakes had been captured on the restaurant level just prior to my decent. I quickly curtailed my tour remembering curiosity killed the cat.
The 3 story glass structure housing the museum extends unsupported over the Arkansas River bank. The sleek building houses most of the Clinton Administration’s 44 million documents, gifts to the Clintons from visiting dignitaries, photographs, and his presidential limousine. The museum visit was meaningful and jogged my memory on Clinton’s accomplishments including NAFTA, Norther Ireland Peace accords, deficit reduction, and re-inventing government. In spite of the impeachment, Senate trial, and Newt Gingrich’s new brand of partisanship, Clinton delivered solid improvements for everyday Americans including the highest level of home ownership, longest sustained economic expansion (its the economy stupid) and lowest sustained unemployment in decades. Entering the display level of the museum, two dashboards greet visitors that display the statistics bearing witness to the success of his initiatives.
There are two pieces of memorabilia that brought a tear to my eye. First was a picture taken at President Clinton’s first inaugural. Bill is waving to his mother with what appears to be a wink and a tear in his eye. She is looking at him with what can only be described as proud, exuberant and a look that conveyed “we made it!” The second was President George H.W. Bush’s note he had left Clinton in the oval office desk. If there was ever an example of how our leaders should set an example of tone, that was it.. As we know, Bill Clinton became the Bush family’s “brother from another mother.”
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JFK & LBJ
Where’s Cheney