Daddy’s Hands

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Daddy’s Hands

Daddy had a grip like steel

If he ever shook your hand you would surely know it

If he ever pulled you close you would surely feel it

He threw a horseshoe like a bullet from a gun

He served in tennis like a rabbit on the run

Whether it was a handsaw, a claw hammer, or a handgun,

He had a killer grip and the grip of a killer

And he could teach the hawk a few things about the handsaw.

Daddy’s hands.

 

ALL NIGHT DINER

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Night of the all-night diners, the yellow window machine shop night where daylight was being prepared on lathes . Night of the thunderous anvils preparing the cities ironheart for tomorrow’s iron traffic. Night of the city lovers, the Saturday night till Sunday morning lovers, Making Love on a rented bed with the rent not due till Monday.

-Nelsen Algren, Man with the Golden Arm

Wildwood

It was my last best hope and expectation to meet up with a very special girl from Jersey in Wildwood. I was from Philly and she was from Harlem and our lives intersected in a small town in South Jersey. She was a sweet kid and wild as Friday night and we were supposed to meet for a weekend rendezvous in the seaside town of Wildwood. It was during the off season and there weren’t too many people around, which was how I liked it.

I holed up in a cheap hotel near the beach for a few days but she never showed. So I walked the streets and combed the beach a bit and I snapped a few pictures.

The Gun Shop

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Instruments of death that fit snugly into the palm of your hand were gleaming dully in their showcases lovingly caressed by blue velvet. Oiled wooden handles jutted from solid blue back bodies. There was a faint odor of oil and metal lingering on the air conditioned atmosphere of the room. The soft sounds of creaking leather reverberated through the reverential quiet as the clerk tenderly, ever so gently, eased a delicately balanced, but heavily weighted .357 magnum out of its holster

“Listen to this action,” he whispered to me imploringly.

Firmly, but gently, he gripped the butt of the gun in his right hand. He placed the web of his thumb over the hammer of the awesome black revolver and slowly began to exert pressure on it. The man’s hands trembled slightly and he closed his eyes. Small beads of perspiration began popping over his upper lip. A little metal clicking noise emerged from the gun as the hammer went through its first cocking phase. A slight smile appeared on the lips of the clerk as he continued to pull back on the heavy hammer and another click emerged — the gun was half-cocked — the clerk began breathing heavily now and rapidly  his face grew flush. He slid his thumb to the edge of the hammer and applied the tip of it to the ridges cut deeply into the top edge. He pushed down hard and fully cocked the revolver. A tiny tear drop appeared in the corner of the clerk’s eye.

The gap between the ridged head of the steel hammer and the body of the gun was a chasm. It looked like the jaws of a primordial reptile. It was powerful, and it was frightening — the stored-up energy of that hammer begged to be released. He pulled the trigger.

Snap!

I jumped. The hair on the back of my neck prickled and a shiver ran down my left arm. The clerk placed the gun back into the showcase and hung the holster back on the rack. He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and blew out blue clouds of smoke across the room. He had a distant look in his eye. I turned on my boot heels and walked out of the store into the bright afternoon sun. I squinted my eyes and shuttered with relief to be back in normal time and space again. Just to-make sure I kicked out at the base of a red white and blue mail box standing at the edge of the sidewalk. It hurt sufficiently to be convincing. I began the three block walk back to my office still in a bit of a stupor.

Garvin Gate Blues Festival

Photo Essay

The Garvin Gate Blues Festival is held the second weekend in October in historic Old Louisville. It’s a two day festival featuring performers both national and local that celebrates blues music. This event attracts both a multiracial and a multi-generational crowd.  It has a 29 year history and is still going strong.

Featured here is the band Tweed Funk hailing from Milwaukee.

Bikers, Booze, and Blues

Garvin Gate Neighborhood

Pet Friendly

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Tweed Funk

Smokey Holman

Andrew Spada

Eric Madunic

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Dave Schoepke

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A Face in the Crowd

 

Mystery

 

What mystery lies beneath the mist enshrouded tombs?

Palmer Cemetery 4 (3)

 

The dead die hard,  they are born astride a grave

Palmer Cemetery 1

A stranger’s shadow finds its way across the yard by dead reckoning

He meets a deadend

He is deadbeat meat for worms

That’s a sensible cadaver

Palmer Cemetery 4 (1)

There never was such a season for mandrakes.

Shall we linger here until perdition caches up to us?

The Cemetery is a cockpit for comic panic

Sob heavy world, sob heavy.