"For this world also which seems to us a thing of stone and flower and blood is not a thing at all but is a tale. And all in it is a tale and each tale the sum of all lesser tales and yet these also are the selfsame tale and contain as well all else within them. So everything is necessary. Every least thing." --Cormac McCarthy, The Crossing. As unrelated as McCarthy's novel seems to the jazz I've been reading about, and listening to, over the past few days, there are broader connections, believe it or not. As much as McCarthy's novel is about epic journeys, finding self and finding place (and horses and wolves and vaqueros and very long sentences), I can't help but think Ellington's "East St. Louis Toodle-O" is also about saying goodbye, moving on, nostalgia, and an expression of excitement for the future--a journey about to begin. On Friday night I heard Greg Osby and the Osby Four do their own version of this song and today, I've been listening to Ellington's own rendition. Something mournful about it in its musical tale about coming of age. Of course, this is what I hear/see in it. A tale, too, from my friend BG in a small community in Illinois--one of finding place within a community, within a particular time in their lives, and within a land that would at last feel like home. And with a thread I am pretty sure I can spin, a connection to the conversations I overheard last night at the Cardinals-Giants game at Busch Stadium. Not being a regular attendee of any baseball game, I didn't realize there was that much talking between strangers up in the terrace section during play. I watched the game (dutifully), sucked up a chocolate shake, and, as I couldn't help but listen due to the proximity of my seat, took mental notes of states of origin (Missouri, California), occupations (attorney, math teacher), religions (Catholic, nonspecific Christian), children's schools (assorted), and who was what fan of which team and why. Very chatty folks. The more beer imbibed, the more chatty.
About 60 miles east of St. Louis off the I-70 lies Mulberry Grove, amid corn and soybean fields, stores full of farm equipment, WalMart, and funny little signs at a campground that pay homage to Down Under. These signs have a story of their own, not to mention possess the story of the proprietor--my friend BG--and her own tale of an epic journey.
1 comment:
That's one of the great things about baseball - you just tend to talk to people with whom you wouldn't normally converse. My time as a youngster at Fenway Park was often spent in seats near the same people and after awhile, you get to know them. Of course, one of my last times in Fenway prior to leaving New England I had the negative stranger conversation experience. I had come from work at an insurance company and had my tie and vest on still (no jacket). A beer imbibing fan considered me "over-dressed" and told me so twice; my sister intervened suggesting, "hey buddy, at least he's got a f#*@@(ng job." Ah, sibling loyalty.
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