Deep cold in the hollow, anger in the streets

It has been cold, deeply cold out here, as it has been in many areas across the country. Even the daylight in the morning looks icy, like we’ll never feel warm again, like some sort of Dementor has enveloped us, sucking all of the heat from our beings. The creatures that share this land with me seem to be handling the cold without too much difficulty. I see their footprints in the snow on my lane, even if I don’t see the actual animal. Mice, rabbits, squirrels, raccoons, blackbirds of some variety or other, and deer, always deer. Thankfully, snakes are curled up in a cave somewhere in the hollow, though I could use their help with mice this time of year.

Now we’re into February and, until the end of the month, there are 16 of my black and white photographs on exhibit in a gallery in a nearby town. A few of the photos will cause some who see them to wonder why they are being shown in an exhibit called, simply, “Home.” One such photo is called ‘mowing chair’ and, for reasons unapparent to just about anyone, it’s one of my favorites, as it goes along with my belief that, if we don’t tell the stories of those we loved, then, who will? The stories will always be incomplete, and your children and grandchildren will seem not to care, but tell the stories anyway.

I’ll be brief on this one. My wife was an inveterate pusher of lawn mowers … hell, I think it’s listed on her curriculum vitae. Anyway, toward the end, when she could no longer push her mower, I placed her in the chair while I mowed, always putting it in a place where I could keep an eye on her. She was content. As I moved to different parts of the yard, so moved the chair, my smiling love in sight at all times.

On this cold day, my cats Pippa and Luna are curled up in front of the fire in the living room, and a jazz radio station out of Cedar Rapids is playing sublime stuff, Pat Metheny, Antonio Carlos Jobim, Stan Getz, Chuck Mangione, music from my youth. Ah, youth. In my 75th year, I note that there are no longer things that once came easily for me. I no longer ice skate, play bass guitar, sing in public, climb ladders, change the oil in my car, push a lawn mower, and the list could go on and on. It’s silly to worry about such things; rather like wishing I could still wrestle at 165 pounds. These days, I mostly sit in a chair in my little corner of the world, reading, listening to music, and just generally being an old curmudgeon who still does not own a cellular telephone.

Events of the past couple of weeks caused me to chat with another old guy about a brilliant bit of music and poetry by the late Gil Scott Heron, called “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised,” from 1970, and he responded by singing one of the verses of the 1967 Country Joe & the Fish anti-Vietnam tune, “I feel like I’m Fixin’ To Die, Rag.” You know the one; “And it’s one, two, three, what are we fightin’ for? Don’t ask me, I don’t give a damn.” Later, I mentioned my encounter to another old guy, who began singing the 1969 John Lennon/Yoko Ono classic, “Give Peace a Chance.” At any other time, these encounters with sentient men might have been interesting, even amusing, forays into an oftentimes dark past, but today they feel all too real. Anger on the streets of America is once again palpable and, honestly, it concerns me. It feels like it once did, like we’ve lost control of something important. I’m unable to articulate what seems to be happening; however, I think Heron understood it when he ended his poem with, “The revolution will be no rerun, brothers. The revolution will be live.”

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County and hosts the “Rural America” podcast. It can be found at https://www.ullrichruralamerica.com