The Southerner Journal

NORTH LITTLE ROCK (June 20) - Today is the longest day of the year. So I started it right.

I met the owner of the liquor store at 9:15 a.m. and bought a keg and the makings for Opie's Punch. At 10:23, I tapped the keg of Fat Tire and proceeded to get a beer bath (it's been awhile since I did this for a living). I'm marinated shish-k-bobs for later today.

It's been 10 years since my last Solstice party, and I'm starting to remember why. First: Solstice tends to happen mid-week, and most people work during the week. Second: Last time I had a Solstice party, the undercover police showed up. Now, I knew them, but my guests didn't feel they could relax if the po-po sat nearby.

But I digress. I know Lil' Chuck's coming to play and Alice and Mars plan to initiate an art installation. Maybe the promise of chess, dominoes and canasta wasn't enough for some. Hmmmmmm...

I thought about canceling the party after last week when I had to put Kilroy down.

Cat Myths

Moon Goddess Diana created a smaller version of the lion, the cat. A cat lies at the feet of the Roman goddess Libertas. According to Russian folklore, a black cat put in a baby's cradle will ward off evil. Henry VII claimed a mischievious cat trapped him into marriage. The French once considered the cat as a symbol of freedom. Mohammed preached with a cat cradled in his arms. Burman priests worship golden-eyed  Sinh.

I never really considered myself a cat person (I didn't steal that line from Willie Morris, though I realize he said something similar about Spit McGee). Although my baby blanket featured kittens, I never owned a cat as a child. Dogs, lots of dogs, but no felines. The only memory of cats I have from childhood is reading about the Egyptians idolizing them.

I didn't live with a cat until the early 1990s, when Tracy Hayes gave me a kitten named Merkedes. Coincidentally, that was around the time Tanya and I dated. Anyway, Merkedes went crazy after I moved out of a trailer and into a farm house in Scott, Ark., that sat on 130 acres. I was the only human he'd approach after we moved. He died with a poisoned rat in his mouth. He'd been around for about a year.

I didn't plan to get another cat, but graduate school and a bad break-up changed things. I'd moved into an efficiency apartment on the third floor of Knoxville's Riverhouse on West Hill. The whole room was about as big as my living room now.

Glen Harris talked me into taking home a kitten from the offspring of Boomer, a Tennessee alley cat, and Jezebel, a Himalayan. I once saw Boomer spring from a prone position on the sidewalk, four feet into the air to take down a low-flying bird.

Kilroy plays cat'n'mouse.

I picked out the runt of the litter and named him Kilroy, after the nickname given to a cousin who died in a motorcycle accident when I was a kid. Kilroy and I went back to the Riverhouse and bonded. Well, kind of.

The Riverhouse sits next to the Tennessee River and across the hilltop from Neyland Stadium at the University of Tennessee. I never believed my family when they talked about walking uphill both ways to school until I attended UT. I still think they were full of it, but I've got proof. Anyway, I'd walk to school or occasionally ride my bike. Every afternoon when I'd come home, I could see Kilroy in the window waiting for me. By the time I crossed the street to my block, I could hear him whining, which wouldn't stop until I'd climbed to the third floor to unlock the door.

After a while, the whining got to me and I decided Kilroy needed a playmate. So I went back to Glen and Christine's and picked up his brother, Pep. I often refer to them as "The Boyz." I even started writing about them.

That's my boyz — the predators.

   

Kilroy (bottom) slashes out while Pep stares in the efficiency apartment at The Riverhouse.

Oh sure, they'll fool you into thinking they're laid back — sprawled on their backs in the noonday sun on my waterbed like puddles, expecting me to pet them or something. They refuse to even let the bed waves disturb them. Instead, they'll act like they were born to sail.

   But wait for a bug to fly in the window ... you'd think Armageddon's begun. Off the bed lightning quick. Little black hairs flying into the air and onto my computer screen.

   Kilroy goes left; Pep goes right. They strategically surround the enemy, even allowing it to think there's a possible escape. Yeh, right.

   The Game Begins.

   At first, it's just a swipe of the paw, enough to stagger but not kill. If the enemy has wings, now's the time to fly. If not, grim reality sets in.

   Sometimes the game lasts a minute ... sometimes 15. Depends on how much fun the Boyz want to have. But it always ends the same.

   Another dead bug. Another happy cat. Another day.

The first group photo of me and the boyz.

The Riverhouse sat across the street from Lord Lindsey's Mansion, a fancy old columned house where people would dance Saturday nights and schools would hold Prom. One day, I noticed a wedding across the street.

The apartment was hot, so I opened the windows. The Boyz had been cramped up so they sauntered in and out of the french windows, much to the distaste of one middle-aged man sitting across the street on the veranda of the mansion. I probably wouldn't have noticed him at all. Had his wife not stared with dropped jaw into my window. Had the wedding photographer not gazed to where I stood as well. Had the man not shown me a disdainful look as I sauntered past the window. Weddings being the superstitious affair they are, well, you see the dilemma. But I wasn't going to bring my black cats back in the room just to please a superstitious lady who gawked and her husband with his menacing scowl.

Kilroy at Laurel apartment

I moved to Laurel Avenue and had perhaps the only showdown over the cats I ever encountered. I was dating a Croatian who told me it was either her or the Boyz. I told her she could go; she came back later.

Kilroy and Pep kept me sane during that time of graduate school. I couldn't take myself seriously when a cat would walk across the keyboard as I worked. I went on a trip to the Dakotas with Anne Cunningham and left Christina Haines to watch the boyz. I called back to check on them and Stina tells me Kilroy's been gone for two days. I told her if he didn't come back in the next day or so, I didn't expect him to return. I called back the next day and he'd stopped by for dinner.

Ron and the Boyz outside the Laurel apartment

I returned to the Laurel house after an extended hiatus at the Haines property on 44 acres on the side of a mountain in Clinton, Tenn. I stepped out on the porch one morning to find a man holding his doberman at the length of its leash. I looked over the railing to see Kilroy with three legs down and one up, swinging side-to-side, ready to give the doberman the what-for. The man looked at me and said, "He's not afraid of much, is he." I replied, "He lived with a Rottweiler for awhile." The man and dog moved on.

I moved to Ohio to teach at Muskingum College and The Boyz rode in the window of the U-Haul or slept in my lap, too haughty to stay in any damn car carrier. It's easy to claim they should be in the carrier, but you try dealing with screaming cats on a 425-mile trip.

The Boyz didn't deal too well with the raccoons who kept eating their food off the front porch of my cabin. Nor did they deal too well with the screeching as I learned to play harmonicas. But they never left for good. We all returned to Clinton to the Haines property, a.k.a. House of Misfit Toys. We seemed to fit in and I put the finishing touches on the dissertation.

Kilroy at home on Broken Arrow

When I returned to North Little Rock, I didn't know what the Boyz would think about it. They'd never been west of the Mississippi River. But once again, they adjusted. We moved into Hickory Hill Condominiums, which featured floor level windows that pop open. I rigged mine so the Boyz could go in and out no matter what time of year.

My brother, David, would check on the Boyz whenever I'd go out of town. One day he walked in and didn't see them, but went out to the porch to fix their food. As he came back inside, Kilroy and Pep were flying into the room hot on the trail of a rat. David said he jumped on the couch and had to walk across furniture to get out the door.

On another occasion, David and I were watching television as Kilroy sauntered in with a bird in his mouth. Once he set it down, the bird tried flying. Dave and I both jumped out of our seats, but Kilroy quickly put the bird out of it's misery.

When Tanya and I started dating again, Kilroy was the first to seek her out for pats. Since we've been married, I can only think of one disagreement between the two. Before we found out he'd been shot on Friday, April 13, the doctor thought Kilroy had arthritis. We had to pop pills into his mouth, which caused him to foam at the mouth for hours. It got so bad that he'd have ropes of saliva coming out of his mouth when Tanya walked into the room. They've since made peace.

br>The last month has been hard watching him and wondering if he'd get better. For awhile he seemed fine, as he walked up and down the stairs and seemed to get his equilibrium back. I even took him to the vet last Friday to get his annual shots. But he took a turn for the worse last weekend.

Last photo of Ron and The Boyz, Kilroy on right

We were in Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge on the Excursion from Hell. We'd finally started heading west when Kelli called to tell me Kilroy couldn't move and ask if she should take him to the emergency clinic. I told her to wait until we got in before taking him. We got there around midnight and drove directly there, where they ran blood tests and x-rays. The doctor said his drop from 13 lbs to 9 lbs primarily came from atrophy of the muscle in his hind quarters. We took him home and tried to decide what to do. I tried to help him to the litter box Monday night, but when I returned, he'd fallen in it. He didn't seem to care, though, as we cleaned him up. You know a cat is sick when it doesn't pitch a bitch about getting wet.

Tanya fed Kilroy buffalo meatballs in beef gravy Monday night, and lump crab meat twice Tuesday (both meals accompanied by diluted milk). He sat in my lap nearly all day both days and we gave him a lot of love. But he wasn't getting any better.

We took him to the regular vet Tuesday afternoon. It was rough. They gave him a sedative shot that made him jump, but it was supposed to calm him. Then the doctor gave Kilroy the "death shot," but the first one didn't kill him; so they gave him another. I just sat there holding him, watching with tears rolling down my face. What was I to do? It sucked. I had Kilroy with me almost 10 years.

Afterwards, we took Kilroy home. The dogs came up to sniff as we walked through the door, but Pep, Kilroy's brother, just wanted some wet food. I took Kilroy's remains to the hillside sliding down to the bottom of our back yard. I started digging with a mattock and shovel, but around 2 feet down, I hit bedrock. I went ahead and buried him there. Tanya built up an additional two feet by placing a catnip plant on top of him surrounded by cedar mulch; I hope we can keep the dogs away.

Final resting spot for Kilroy my boy

I thought about getting really drunk, but I didn't even feel like doing that. I woke up looking around for Kilroy before rememberin' he's not here. This last week, I've thought I've heard him in the hall or in the garage. Some of you may think I'm crazy for spending so much space writing about a cat, but to me, Kilroy was my bud. I miss him.

That's enough of rememberin'; I'm ready to forget. Wish you were here, but have a wonderful solstice and know you're in my thoughts. To prove it, here's the recipe for Opie's Punch:

1 jigger Southern Comfort
1/2 jigger Amaretto
Pineapple, Cranberry and Orange Juices

Warning: Drink slowly or you may find yourself on the floor! That being said, it's starting out to be a slow party. Not that I mind. I realize some people love to make late appearances. Still, there's a keg to finish and Lil' Chuck just showed, so it's time to unload the band equipment. Hope you have a GREAT solstice.

Posted by Ron Sitton at 02:21 PM | Permalink

Not Black and White

Under the Microscope
by Glynn Wilson

BIRMINGHAM, Ala., June 10 - There is a famous story about editors at the New York Times I learned while working with the elite of the elite a few years back.

Reporters who make the big leagues of American journalism hear this story and learn to deal with it in their own way.

As the story goes, when an editor calls a reporter in the field in a place like Birmingham, Alabama, and asks: "Is the community torn asunder down there?" The reporter, if he wants to keep his job, is supposed to not only answer, "yes." You are supposed to provide direct quotations from people in the community who will corroborate the premise of the story, to back up the lede, so to speak.

There have been many situations when my own instincts and the facts on the ground did not support the premise, and in fact, the opposite, counterintuitive truth is often the case.

And since I am in the business of calling it like I see it and telling it like it is, I often reported the truth on the ground and to hell with what a bunch of editors in New York think.

But today, in the story I am about to report, I think it is safe to say that this community is torn asunder. It's just that in this case, the editors in New York could care less. Why? Because the story does not involve Paris Hilton or the Red State-Blue State, Conservative-Liberal, Democrat-Republican divide.

The story involves a little old man named Clay Blake, 78, who lives right down the street from here.

This past Tuesday afternoon around 1 p.m., in what we like to call "broad daylight," Mr. Blake was unloading some groceries from his pickup truck. And up walked a mixed up young man - who should never have been in the possession of a hand gun – and held up Mr. Blake. He forced this little old man who never hurt anyone in his life into the house he has lived in for the past 40 years.

Once inside, this young man, of the African-American persuasion, tied little old Mr. Blake up with the power cord from a vacuum cleaner. He then kicked Mr. Blake in the face, rendering him unconscious.

When Mr. Blake came to, he discovered his wallet and a couple of pistols missing, and then made a phone call and had himself checked into the hospital at Medical Center East.

The neighborhood was all abuzz about this dastardly dead after the crime brief hit the Birmingham News on Saturday.

What this mixed up young man who committed this crime does not understand is that his already sad and pathetic life is about to take a drastic turn for the worse. Maybe the money he stole went to purchase some food and bought him another day of life on this planet. Or maybe it just went for some crack cocaine to make him fell better about himself for a few measly minutes.

Either way, this young man is about to be found out and turned in to authorities in ways he will never comprehend. And he will either end up in prison or dead.

Maybe he would be better off dead. Or maybe he should never have been born in the first place, if his mixed up single mama had been told by someone cool that there is a such thing as a condom - and that there is no shame in using one.

Now here is where the politics and sociology of the situation get interesting beyond the basic facts about the crime. If only she had been told that this is a black and tan world, not a black and white world, maybe none of this would ever have happened.

What do I mean by that?

It's like this. There are some racist, conservative members of this community who would like to hang this little shit up by his toes and torture him to death for his crime. But these are the same Republican voters who oppose birth control - and taxes for prisons. It is just bad public policy to think you can have it both ways.

When the church and the state both advocate unworkable policies and try to tell teenagers to "abstain" from sex, and deny them a real education about sex and intelligent alternatives to unwanted pregnancies and the spiraling down nature of poverty, what kinds of bad decisions can we expect in our communities?

And this is particularly acute in a town like Birmingham, where both races still suffer from the sting and distrust of segregation.

At least in a place like New Orleans, the races lived in relative proximity of one another and in relative harmony for 300 hundred years. It is different in Birmingham, where the clash of the races in the newer, sprawling suburbs comes into specific relief every time an incident like this one is reported.

The African-American community in and around Birmingham will never trust white people, and the whites will keep trying to escape these kinds of crimes by moving further and further out into the country toward Blount and St. Clair Counties.

Meanwhile, nothing is done to try and bring people together and get them to understand the larger facts on the ground. And this serves only the politicians on the right and the left who get themselves elected by using the great divide to scare people and keep them down.

If only people could understand that there is no such thing as a simple, black and white world. There are an abundance of shades of gray out there.

What we need is a government that tackles practical solutions to real problems. One real problem that is leading to the current crime wave is the growing divide between the rich and the poor, fed by a mostly Republican effort to keep wages down so large corporations can make more and higher profits for mostly white stockholders.

This is an unsustainable world where all the problems in society are going to get worse, not better. And for every conservative who listens to talk radio and Fox News who likes to say, "that's the American way," here's a fact for you.

The founding fathers of this democratic republic had in mind an egalitarian society with a large middle class with equal opportunities for all. They DID NOT envision a so-called "Christian" nation modeled after the Monarchies of Europe.

You can say it all day long every day. But that does not make it true.

And what is so Christian anyway about a society that discriminates on the basis of race and class? Nothing.

So show me a Democrat or a Republican politician who understands these things, and he or she will get my vote, black or white.

Now call me a liberal and dismiss what I have to say - you idiot so-called conservative lurkers.

We say there is a two-word phrase for anyone who plays that game. In the perfect, fictional world of Locustforkland, where the river runs cold and true, the great blue herons dance like Elvis and the people like to shoot the breeze (and they are usually right), we like to call you "Alabama dumbasses."

And of course we are right.

Posted by Glynn Wilson at 01:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

By Ronald Sitton

NORTH LITTLE ROCK (June 1) - Believe it or not, I still get out to live music on occasion. Just not as much as I'd like.

Two weeks ago, I missed the Towncraft festival. I really wanted to catch the reunions of Ashtray Babyhead and Mulehead, as well as see Ho-Hum again. But I suffered from finals-lag. Instead, I get to see video clips here and there.

Original art for GRASSMUSIC for the Era

But I did take the time to catch a second reunion of sorts. But first a little background. Back in the mid-'90s, I met Chuck Brouillette, who introduced me to Jeff Davis and Mark Jones. Jeff and Mark played guitar in Grass, a blues-rock band that occasionally played around town. Chuck, Mark and I worked at Friday's. We all hung out with Micah Hall, Ron Hollis and Doug Morgan on the corner of JFK and McCain in North Little Rock. Those were crazy times.

Prior to my leaving Arkansas, Grass broke up. By then I knew everyone a little better, so I offered to provide backup vocals and cover art when Jeff made GRASSMUSIC for the Era. The cover art worked much better than the vocals, primarily b/c I came in to sing after fishing all day. A wicked sunburn knocked me down and out. So if you ever hear the disc, I'm on maybe four or five tracks.

We all kept in touch after I left the state. I'd catch up with Chuck and Jennifer whenever I'd come home, and I even got to spend a little time with Mark and V when they lived in Fayettenam. Jeff visited me in Knoxville and saw me at my worst when I was still in the throes of the worst heartbreak I ever lived through. To this day, when his friends tell me they've heard about me, I don't know what to say. ;)

Ready, Turn, Stoned at the White Water Tavern

But enough of the past. Unlike the Towncraft festival, which brought together people who swore they'd never play together again, Grass did not have a reunion. But Chuck and Veronica opened the May 22 show at the White Water Tavern in a new band called Ready, Turn, Stoned. I'd describe their music as southern blues punk. I don't think any song lasted longer than a couple of minutes, but you could tell they loved to play together. I thoroughly enjoyed it and plan to see them again.

A second band (I think they were called They Got High on Drums, but I can't be sure) played while we sat down and drank a little. Jeff introduced me to Annie Ellicott, who now sings for Jeff's new band, Ben.Ben. She adds a great flavor to Jeff's experimental music, which I'll just call jazz because that's what it reminds me of ... something familiar but different every time I hear it.

On this night they actually performed as Jeff Davis and the Shuffle Band. I assume it's due to more people in Arkansas knowing Jeff than Ben.Ben. Still, they played some tunes I knew from back in the day, e.g. "City of the Blues," "Cat in the Rain" and "Mule in the Road." It's interesting to hear how those songs have progressed as Jeff's progressed. I look forward to an album at some time.

My wife had to work the next morning, so I sat with Chuck, Mark and V until intermission. After the set break, I stayed to watch a few more songs before heading to the after-party for Ready, Turn, Stoned. Although enjoyable, my body does not keep up as well in my late 30s as it did in my early to mid-20s. Needless to say, 3 a.m. doesn't sit so well on these old bones. But it was a great time.

Oh ... one last thing. A few weeks prior to this show I'd e-mailed Jeff about the ill-fated Fields of Sound Music and Art Festival. He replied that Arkansas didn't even know he was gone. After the White Water show, I think they remember now. If you're in Oklahoma, take a moment to catch what Arkansas lost.

Jeff Davis and the Shuffle Band

Posted by Ron Sitton at 02:43 PM | Permalink