Sitting and swinging,
On the bench of my Grandfather's lakeside home,
Where warm summers were spent,
Learning to swim, ski, and fish in Kentucky waters,
Where I read The Stand in a week,
When I was only 13 years old.

Where I plinked at soda cans with a BB gun,
Had corn on the cob, hushpuppies, and catfish,
Had annual family putt putt competitions,
And night's filled with dominoes and stayed up until 3,
Just sitting on the porch and watching the moon bathed lake,
Passing a J and listening to the crickets,
Softly holding discussions regarding topics from music to the planets,
We truly talked about everything.

That summer we spent fixing up that job boat, swimming the half mile across the cove without a life jacket,
Where I truly felt at peace.

They took you off life support,
The day the willow flies died,
I went back to work,
Finished my shift,
But to tell the truth I felt hollow inside.

You were already brain dead,
The doc's said,
That you wouldn't be in any pain,
But all that was running through my head,
Was memories of disturbingly good meatloaf,
And looking forward to you birthday cakes made from scratch,
Every single year.

I thought of the horror my mother must be going through,
Watching her life long friend,
Tube down her throat,
Having to watch her pass.

Eyes stinging from loss,
Anger bubbling deep inside,
Need to go get drunk,
Smash some ****,
That's a healthy way to deal with it....

Right?

Your raspy laugh, joining into with my mom's fit of guffaws,
At some dumb inside joke,
That all started when you two were still in grade 5.


I get home to the apartment,
Bring the whiskey to my lips,
It's frostbite burn making it's way down my throat,
To pool,
Swirl,
And radiate out,
Making me numb and glacial cold.

It was so unexpected,
That's the rub,
To blindside us,
To make this hurt so raw,
But it's the fact that you were one of the TRULY good ones,
That's what chaps me most of all.

One of those special breed,
That makes you want to shout up at God,
To unleash your grief, anger, and dare I say it, hatred?
To spit in the face of some divine plan?

It poured down though,
A downward deluge so bad it's as if it's Him confirming,
That he is saddened by having to do it too.

She told me as they wheeled you out of your hospital room,
The staff lined the hall,
As they wheeled you to that surgical suite,
Where you were to perform your last physical act of kindness in the world,
To donate your lungs and and kidney to people who desperately needed them,
And that makes me tearfully wonder too.

Will they ever know of you,
Your gentle nature and generosity,
Loving demeanor and benevolent heart,
To help all those that you knew?
....
That they took you off life support,
They day the willow flies died,
Where the sun was bright,
It poured down lake Erie,
When the angel trumpets bloomed.

I sit in an ocean of empty Budweiser bottles,
Upon an island of Johnnie Walker Blue,
Mind flittering  through topics,
Whilst Steve Martin rocks the banjo,
Pickin' those old folk tunes.

I'm in a happy spot,
Between buzzed and blitzed,
That place you can only get to on a summer evening,
Or perhaps a bachelor party or two.

But listen to me ramble,
Please,
Come and take a seat,
Your dogs must be barking,
Would you like a cig?
Or perhaps a drink?

If it's neither that's no matter,
It's the company that keeps,
Just ignore my rambling when it crops up,
Treat it like a bad **** on a spring breeze.

You remember old cartoons?
What care and expertise.
Every cell hand drawn,
Fufilling every child's entertainment needs.

But what of old television programming?
What the hell happened to MTV?
Just give me my music videos and rock music,
Even if you can only go as far back as 2003.

Oops,
I'm doing it again,
How embarrassing,
Just a tipsy old fool,
Remember,
A **** on the spring breeze.

But seriously,
What about Vault?
Saturday morning cartoons?
Products as seen on tv?
Cha-cha-cha-chia?
Myspace?
Zines?

Perhaps you don't know what all those are,
Too young to remember the scene,
Of ska, skateboards, roller derbies,
Of Cribs, **** my ride, skating videos, and terrible tv.

Remember it all,
Those strange years,
Young and transitionary.

I remember it all,
Those strange, strange years,
Back in 2003.

Wind howling,
Lightning arcing,
Rain falls in great painful sheets,
With thunder booming like the yells of some great giant,
Woken from his eternal sleep.

I wonder what it feels like,
To be struck by one of those voluminous bolts,
To be ignited by plasma who's degrees are in the thousands,
To be burned out to the core.

Sitting on the porch,
Drawing from an ice cold bottle,
I think back to my childhood,
Tyler Childers yodeling into this pre-summer air,
I'm drawn back to when I was six...

My father's father babysitting me,
Taking me for a walk through his garden,
Filled with carrots, tomatoes, and onions
Which he tended to every day,
I remember asking him what it meant to be a hard worker.

He paused to look at me,
In that way he would,
His face seeming to scrunch in on itself,
And after a moment,
As it always would,
Would return to it's natural state.

He told me to wait there,
And was gone but a minute or two,
He came back with a bucket and some trowels,
And had us digging up the veggies he grew.

It felt like hours to my children's mind,
But was probably only a minute or two,
The bucket was filled,
He paused in his labors,
And told me to give him my hand.

His hand dwarfed my own,
Dispite it being ravaged and shrunken with age,
He held my hand up for inspection,
And with a slight grin,
Turned to show me what he saw.

It didn't appear to be anything to me,
Just some dirt and grit on my hand,
Until he explained with wise words,
"A hard worker ends his day with dirt under his fingernails, Louie, that's all that needs to be seen",
And with a nod,
We went inside,
To wash up for chili and franks.

I never knew that he was sick.

Fast forward a couple of years,
And I'm playing in the creek of my childhood home,
Looking for snakes,
And enjoying the day,
My mother came out,
Looking upset,
And called me in,
That we were going to go see Grandpa,
And with that my heart soared.

It didn't soar long.

He looked so small,
In that sterile hospice bed,
But as children often are,
I was oblivious to the situation,
And ran up to his bed.

He was so weary looking back,
Ravaged by cancer and time,
His face a roadmap of hardships,
Of trials sustained through the years,
But not seeing this then I ran up to him,
I smiled and said,
"I'm a hard worker Grandpa, just like you said!"

Adorning the undersides if my nails,
Black from creek mud and grime,
Some life returned to his dying eyes,
And dispite not being able to speak,
It didn't matter,
No words needed to be said.

It was the last time I saw him,
So long ago it seems,
But that old man taught me a good lesson,
That I won't ever forget.

Being brought back to the present,
Bone tired after a 12 hour shift,
I look at my hands and grin,
Grin at the carbon encrusted nails and oil stained creases.

The signs of a hardworking man.

Mandolin plinking from a tiny speaker,
McKnight doing his damndest to make my knee bounce,
Bringing tunes that remind me of Appalachian summers,
Transporting me to those mountains and hills.

Summer barbeques with Carolina gold slopped into mashed taters,
Sweet corn smothered in butter,
Gentle breezes and acoustic guitars,
Grilling meat and beer in ice-filled coolers,
Giggling young'uns and laughter of their parents,
Such vivid memories of the oldest generations,
Telling of the time their homesteads received electricity.

These wise elders regaled us with oddities and anecdotes,
Nuggets of delivered knowledge wrapped in allegory and stories,
Their amusement evident in their not-as-bright eyes,
As they watch us trying to suss out true blue kernels of wisdom from the tall tales.

Family friends that are loved just as strongly as my own parents,
Friends they grew up with,
From WAY back in the day,
Telling each other the same tale for the millionth time,
And yet laughing uproariously like it was the first time.

These are days that have been in the past,
And snapshots of days in the future,
When supper in summer Appalachia happens once again,
Great nostalgia and anticipation wrapped up in a great ball of joy,
South of the Ohio Border.

Mournful tunes,
Sorrowful news,
There is a savage grace at work in one who can sink below the lowest depths of hell and come back up with such a cautionary diamond,
Simmering rage boiling beneath calm water surfaces,
Dealing with their own past perdition in stride.