A Year Has Passed

‎1 year ago, my wife and I flew out of Tokyo, Japan after living in country for three months.  Little did we know that 2 weeks later the country would essentially be at a standstill as it coped with the great earthquake and tsunami of 2011.  A year has passed but the memory of what Japan endured and still endures is firmly planted in my mind.

For those that don't know Japan as well as I do, please allow me to introduce you.  They are a blend of old and new.  Japanese are resilient.  They are team players.  Mostly a homogenous society, they pull together and if there is a theme that drives them it would be "the greatest good for the greatest number."  This isn't only a theme for the older generation, but it's seen in the youngest of the citizens of Japan.  A quality I respect and admire.

1 year ago, and within an hour, the loss in Japan was immeasureable, incomprehensible, and horrendous.  Yet, Japan has survived, and ulltimately Japan will prosper.  I only wish this for everyone.  My prayers are with us all as neighbors on this fragile planet we call home.

Twelve Things I Learned in 2011

Dont' tell me about your 'Prostrate', until you learn to spell it correctly.  And then don't tell me about it until you are at least fifty years old.  I don't want to know.

You can't drink three beers without excusing yourself to the bathroom.  

Don't hold grudges.  Please don't.  People get older, some get sick, some die.  If you are mad, just let it go.  You'll be a better person for it.

Karma lives and is at your door.  If it's good let it in.  If it's not, it will bite you in the ass.

Be a child with a child.  You know you want to.

Suck your stomach in when you go to Walmart.  There are too many people who don't.  Someone will thank you for it.

A good morning kiss will set the pace for the rest of the day.  If your significant other isn't going to initiate it, then it's up to you.

Begin the day with a prayer to God.

Give to those less fortunate even if it's only a smile.

Be true to yourself first.

Do not lie, cheat, steal, or tolerate those who do.

Yes, Virginia...there is...keep it going.  

Sentient

A butterfly visited me this morning by the pool. He stopped long enough to let me take his picture, then I gently cupped him in my hands and released him from the enclosed pool.  I think he was tired because he didn't resist his capture.  As he flew away he looked beautiful against the blue sky.  Our host, my sister in law who is a devout buddhist, heard about my encounter and was happy to learn I released him.  "Something good will come of this," she said.

The Meeting

And so it was, as it was always meant to be...they finally met.
He didn't expect her to be quite as short in stature, and she didn't expect him to be quite as tall...yet somehow they were perfect for each other.  
Oh, but the relationship was way past physical attributes...it was past sounds, time, heartbreak, and yes even past regrets.  Each had their own regrets, but somehow regrets seemed trivial.  It was about now, it was about them, it was about love...and they were in love.  A dream played out to the brightest ending transcending into an even brighter beginning...a prayer answered, a gift, almost undeserving.
Now the couple who only knew one another at a distance embraced, pulled slightly apart, then their lips met for the first of many times to come in their life.    
 With that he spoke up, "Where do we start?"
"How about a cup of coffee and a table for two," she said.  "We'll see where it leads."  "I know a  place near here...the locals call it PIP."  "Point the way my little compass", he said, I'm right with you."  "Did you just call me a little compass...maybe I don't like that!", she said.   I'll explain it all later over a cup", he replied.
Maybe that's how it all started with a conversation about coffee.  He couldn't remember.  He only knew he called her Sam the first time they spoke online, and the name stuck.  "Mind if I put a CD in while you drive?  It's something I've wanted to share with you for a while," he said.  "I was twenty four that year, and you were still waiting to make your arrival."
"Sam, how do you say 'you're my North star' in Tagalog?"  Sam shifted the Rabbit into second gear and turned the corner onto Pinole Valley Road.  "Yes, my moral compass you are" he said quietly under the sound of Billy's vocals and the Rabbit's engine.  
His right hand found it's way to the necklace that he wore beneath his shirt, the one with the cross on it.  "Mother Mary give me courage and wisdom...maraming salamat sa inyo."

Walk

I cannot wish away what has occurred in Japan.  But I can make a difference, and so can you.
If you look around the world, we really are a small community.  Even though we are separated by languages, oceans, and ideologies...we are still our brother and sister's keeper.  Isn't it true that we can make a difference?  Won't you join me and let's do our part?  Thank you.   

Come Walk With Me

Come walk with me and breathe the air 
where life is good and kind and fair 
where children laugh and play their games 
and gay and straight aren’t hateful names 

Where a child can safely walk home from school 
and neighbors heed the golden rule 
where every person does their part 
and love flows freely from the heart 

No need for money in this place 
we’re all part of the human race 
when there’s a need we’ll all be there 
to lend a hand and give our share 

A dream perhaps, well maybe so 
but if you don’t try you’ll never know 
how truly beautiful life can be ... 
so come and take a walk with me 

Lonely Bed

A goose down pillow

 beneath my head

as I float upon 
a feather bed

A patchwork quilt 
my bed adorns

to ward off chill 
and keep me warm

The doors all locked 
and pillows fluffed

The curtains drawn 
and candles snuffed

I float away 
to dream in rhyme

and seek for you 
in distant times

This empty space 
within my bed

where you once lay 
your loving head

A place where we 
as lovers met

to speak in verse 
as we caressed

My arms reach out 
within the night

to pull you close 
and hold you tight

But nothing’s there 
just senseless space

where once was you...
 perfume and lace

Release me Hypnos
 light the fire

Let me awaken 
to loves desire

then soon I’ll hold you 
in the glow

and we'll make love
like long ago

The Rabbit Moon

A long time ago

and so far, far away

lived a beautiful girl

in a town by the bay.

Eyes shaped like almonds

and skin tan and brown.

Her hair black as midnight,

and a face oh so round.

It was Sadako's duty

to gather the honey

to sell at the market

and help the family with money.

So early each morning

to the bee hives she went.

Such a sweet little girl,

such a gift heaven sent.

And each night after chores

she would dream and then sigh,

and stare at the moon

with the rabbit up high.

She dreamed she took flight

with the bees from the hive,

and flew up to the moon

even though she was five!

Well she took to the heavens

with the help of the bees,

and visited the rabbit

who was munching on cheese.

"What a beautiful world

to see with my eyes!

I'll just take a quick nap

and then home I will fly!"

She dreamed of rabbits and pinwheels

and cupcakes and poems.

Then the rabbit awoke her and said,

"You can never go home."

But Sadako pleaded.

She felt all alone.

She missed her dear family.

So she flew away home!

So off she did fly

and arrived at her home.

But something was different,

her home was now gone!

A stranger passed by

whom she asked with great fear,

"Where is my family?

Why aren't they here?"

"Who are you? What's your name",

the stranger then asked.

"I'm Sadako Sasaki!"

Then the stranger did gasp!

"Sadako Sasaki,

the legend has been told

left home at age five,

over three centuries ago!"

Sadako wept

because the rabbit was right.

You can never go home

if you fly away in the night.

So when you gaze at the moon

or dream of the stars,

remember home is where the heart is...

it's not all that far.

Seasons of Love

For Nan...

Would you hold me now and comfort me

before the leaves fall from the maple tree

In the quietness of a moonlit glow

would you draw me close and not let go

Can you take me back to Summer's past

when our hearts were young and love was fast

Our pockets empty but life was grand

as we made a family hand in hand

So hold me now in our Autumn years

and warm my soul as Winter nears

I always knew our love would last

beyond our youthful seasons past

Cupcakes in Prayerville

I had put this road trip on hold for such a long time. Ever since hearing all the rave reviews about a quaint patisserie in Prayerville, California, I have been eager to go there myself.

Karen Marie's Cupcake Shoppe was my destination this clear blue-skied Saturday morning. I soon found myself driving south along the Eastshore freeway headed toward a tiny little town situated between Pinole and Berkeley. My GPS programmed earlier in the morning with my destination input as 111 Pink Pinwheel Road, Prayerville, CA.

The cupcakes in this tiny bakery were said to be unequaled in taste and in texture. Some would argue that cupcakes of this standard could only be found in Lyon, France...maybe Paris. But to many who had visited Karen Marie's, well...these cupcakes were the best.

The owner and propriétaire, Ms Karen Marie had been taught her culinary and baking skills by the famed five star Michelin chef Henri Lapin, master baking chef of Le Cordon Bleu culinary academy in Paris. Mademoiselle Marie learned early in her career to use only the freshest and most seasonal ingredients in her preparations. In fact, her menu at the Cupcake Shoppe changed daily dependent on what ingredients were the freshest. Today, I hoped the famed Apricot cupcake with fresh vanilla sugar was on the menu, but certaily I would not be picky about anything prepared by Mlle Marie.

As I took the Pink Pinwheel Road exit off of the Eastshore freeway I immediately spotted my destination. It was a beautiful small pink cottage with peppermint canes uniquely displayed in the front of the building. Each one paired with another to form the shape of a heart. A large pink spiraled door invited me in. As I took a seat at a little table in the corner I noticed the cupcake du jour was Apricot! The Buddhist in me smiled. I once again was reminded by some inner knowledge from a past life that karma makes the world go around.

A beautiful princess dressed in a diaphanous Cinderella gown and sparkling diamond tiara approached my table and said, "How may I help you kind Sir?" "Oh, I will have the most splendid apricot cupcake with the vanilla sugar topping and a cup of your most wonderful house brewed coffee please." As princess Karen finished taking my order, she turned and walked toward the kitchen and I overheard her say in a hushed voice "The Commander has arrived!"

Oh, by the way you might think this is a fairy tale, but it really happened! Yes, it was yesterday while napping. After I read a story of a sweet little girl and her cupcakes. And today, I still recall the most delicious cupcake ever tasted. I remember pouring creme into my coffee from a white porcelain rabbit creamer. But most of all I remember an angel named Mademoiselle Karen Marie, owner/propriétaire of Karen's Cupcake Shoppe. If you ever are in Prayerville she'll be saving you a seat at the pink little table. Until then...au revoir.

Stellar Epiphany

I know it shouldn't be, but it is. It's 9:45 p.m. and the thermometer on my front porch reads 87 degrees. I really didn't need to look, because I was perspiring from being outside only for a few minutes.

Each night before bedtime, my grandson Bobby and I go outside and look for the moon and any stars we can view from our front yard. We sing the same two songs each night. One song to the moon and the other song to the stars. Tonight we didn't see the moon, so it was with great abandon that 'twinkle twinkle little star' would be sung in near harmony, then I could soon again find my place upon the sofa, grateful for the comfort of a cooler environment. Regardless, our neighbors would thank us that tonight it would only be one song instead of two.

As we looked towards the west, Bobby picked out his star and began to sing as I followed in verse. As I focused upon the star and the beauty of the night, I lifted Bobby upon my shoulders as if I were trying to get him a little closer to heaven. That's when the stellar epiphany struck me. I stopped singing and listened as he completed the verse 'How I wonder what you are'. The moment overcame me, leaving me to question the enormity of what my grandson had just sung.

Yes, I do wonder what you are! I wonder what I am, and how it all fits together. Where in the continuum of the universe does our coexistence come into play? What do I bring to the table and how can I be a positive influence in my grandson's life? Tonight my three year old grandson asks the question "what are you?" in the simplest and most innocent of ways possible...through a child's song.

As I lowered Bobby from my shoulders I knew the answer before his feet touched the ground. The answer to my question was simple. It's all about love, family, ritual, and yes...sometimes it's about looking toward the heavens...even if it is 87 degrees outside.

Deux Coquilles de la Mer

My granddaughter was at the beach yesterday and noticed two sea shells at her feet. She told her mother that the shells were kissing. What a statement coming from a young girl not yet two years of age. Her acute observation gave me pause to write something that I hope she can read when she is old enough, and recall her youth.

Deux Coquilles de la Mer

Look around, what do you see?

Two shells kissing at your feet!

Two shells meeting, sharing love,

as you watch them from above.

Deux Coquilles de la Mer

taking time...a kiss to share.

If shells can do it, why can't we?

Oui ma petite-fille, ah oui...ah oui!

The Intimacy of Words

Straight from the heart, then to the brain, and finally written down on paper. Better yet read to the one you love. The intimacy of words can peel away the exterior facade we all place around ourselves, opening our souls, revealing our vulnerabilities, secrets, and desires.

Words are those sparks of magic that our soul cries out for us to express in the purest way possible. Irresistable and joyous feelings that money can't buy. Let the concerns of the world keep mounting, and the philosophies of mankind keep drifting further apart.

I'll simply keep using words to communicate and express my feelings.Thoughts of love, friendship and gratitude bleed off my pen to all of you that I call friend.

Uruma-shi

Far to the east, the brown earth yields

to towering stands of bamboo fields.

Where women walk in silken gowns

and karma makes their world go 'round.

Jasmine scent wafts through the air.

Children play without a care.

The sun sets low and dusk is nigh,

as elders chat of days gone by.

This village known as Uruma-shi

between the Pacific and China Sea,

and on a hill high up above

lives a little girl I dearly love.

I'll look to the east when all is quiet,

like I do most every night.

And of course you know I'll send my love...

straight to that hill high up above.

The Nothingness of Tea

Now is all I have
as tea is in the making
unimportant past and future
leave me recalling Zen

Quietly exhaling the day in to air
no words need be spoken
between friends
who met by chance

The Ochawan offered
thick green froth
steaming hot
rejuvenating my soul

Bittersweet warmth
kindness between friends
I realize
now is all I have

Sonny Boy's Blues

It was another hot summer morning in south Mississippi when I got the call from my features editor Ed Bates at the Hattiesburg American to work my day off. July of 1976 would go down in the record books as one of the hottest summer months Mississippi had seen in the past thirty years. I had covered the Forrest county city council meeting until 11 p.m. the night before. At least I think it was the night before. My job as a newspaper reporter tends to blend night into day with its demands of working whenever there is a story to tell. I submitted my piece to the paper at midnight and had come home and gone right to bed. Another mundane article by me, Rick Jacobs, feature reporter. As I picked up the telephone I looked at the clock. It was 6:30 a.m. “Hello, I’m not even going to guess who it is. I know it’s you Ed. What do you want, it’s my day off remember?” Whatever Ed wanted, he usually got, he was my boss, and I needed the job. Remember to be nice I said to myself, as I tried to recall why I got a journalism degree from USM instead of an engineering degree from Mississippi State like my parents would have liked. “Rick, you need to get down to the Glen Oaks Nursing Home in Lucedale, Mississippi right away. Aldous Ray wants to talk.” “Aldous Ray? Are you referring to Aldous ‘Sonny Boy’ Ray I excitedly asked?” “You know him Rick?” Ed asked. “Do I know him? Do I know him? For God’s sakes Ed, he’s just one of the most influential blues guitarists to have ever breathed! I’m on my way. Wait, where is he, did you say Lucedale? Oh my God, I’m going to interview Aldous Ray!” Ed knew I would take this assignment. I was a student of the blues having played guitar throughout my college days, paying tuition with any gig I could score. From coffee houses, bars, pool halls…I had done them all. I knew the music of ‘Sonny Boy’ Ray from his contribution to Mississippi delta blues. He had never agreed to an interview until now, and I was going to be sitting in the same room with one of my idols.
I jumped into the cleanest pair of clothes I had, got into my car and headed south. The sun would be my companion today as I took the drive down highway 98 to Lucedale. I would pass through sleepy small towns with names of New Augusta, and McLain. I would cross bridges with rivers flowing beneath by the names of Leaf, and Chickasawhay. It was a welcome assignment in more ways than one. Being out on the open road was a respite from a stuffy office, or sitting in on a boring city council meeting. Meeting Mr. Aldous ‘Sonny Boy’ Ray would be the highlight of my career. Whatever Mr. Ray wanted to say, I would be the one to record it all.
Plenty of time to take pause on the trip and think of the questions I would pose to Mr. Ray. I’ll ask him who influenced his music. I’ll ask him why he left Mississippi in the 1940’s and moved to Chicago. I’ll ask him about playing in Memphis in the 1950’s. As a student of the Mississippi delta blues, I knew all too well his music, where he played, his hit songs, even the name of his beloved guitar. He affectionately named his 1945 Martin 00-18 guitar ‘Sweetness’. This famous guitar was built with an Adirondack spruce top and scalloped braces, mahogany back and sides and Brazilian fingerboard and bridge. It was a lovely guitar that had been featured on the cover of several magazines in the past twenty years. Most recently, Guitar Magazine had featured ‘Sweetness’ on its cover page, calling it "the purest sounding guitar ever manufactured by man.” How I would love to hold that guitar in my hands if only for a moment!
As my mind went over the questions I would ask, the town of Lucedale slowly came into view. With directions offered at the local Texaco station on Main Street, I found my way to Glen Oaks nursing home. As I walked down the hallway to the nursing station, I was greeted by the charge nurse, a Mrs. Jake Rounsaville. Nurse Rounsaville escorted me to the room of the man who I had come to see, the world’s greatest living blue’s guitarist. “Mr. Ray…Mr. Ray you have a visitor from the paper. He says his name is Mr. Jacobs.” Mr. Ray raised his head up from his pillow and looked towards the door. “Do come in Mr. Jacobs.” I’ve been expecting you all mornin’, I hope your drive from Hattiesburg was enjoyable.” “Yes sir, it was quite enjoyable. Getting out of the office once in a while is a delight,” I replied. With pleasantries aside I retrieved my notepad from my briefcase and took a seat next to Mr. Ray’s bedside and began to do like any good reporter and ask the five basic questions of Who, What, When, Where and Why. “Tell me Mr. Ray, who was it that taught you how to play the blues?" Mr. Ray lay silent for a full minute before he spoke.
“Young man, stand up!” I did as Mr. Ray said not quite understanding what he wanted. “Now turn around and face the door.” OK, I thought this a little strange but again, I had a story to write and I assumed this would all be a part of it. “Now, young man, you can show yourself out the door, and close it as you leave.” “I’m sorry, you want me to leave?” I asked. “What I want you to do is get the hell out of my room Mr. Jacobs! You young people nowadays. Ain't nobody teaches nobody how to play the blues. You either got it or you don't. It's given to you when you born. I happened to be blessed. Just show yourself out the door.” I was stunned. I had offended Mr. 'Sonny Boy' Ray. I had committed the ultimate sin for a reporter! Had I not shown enough respect? I had asked the wrong question. I failed in my job. The only thing I could do now was apologize to one of my idols, so I did. “Mr. Ray, I’m very sorry I offended you. I suppose I started on the wrong foot, and I humbly apologize to you and 'Sweetness'. I best be getting back to Hattiesburg. Good day, Sir.” As soon as the word ‘Sweetness’ came out of my mouth, I had my interview. “Hold on there young man…how do you know ‘Sweetness’? Now you just come back in here and pull up a chair and let me tell you all about the blues.” I had my hook set, now all I needed to do was start reeling. I smelled a Pulitzer wafting in the air.
“You know son, ‘Sweetness’ is my guitar. A fine guitar she is too; a 1945 Martin, model 00-18. She’s a beauty, and never let me down. I played her on my biggest hit Walkin’ in High Cotton. You’ve heard that haven’t you son? I still sings those lyrics in my head ever now and then...'Oh you pick cotton fifty cent a day, tote that cotton that's what I say...what I see when I look down...ain't no money in this ground'." Indeed I had heard of Walkin’ in High Cotton. It was only the biggest selling blue’s piece in history. “Well, ‘Sweetness’ was a gift to me from a very special friend by the name of Muddy Waters. I guess you probably heard of him. Make yourself comfortable, this story don’t go nowhere fast and I probably need to tell it before I pass. I was born in Sunflower county Mississippi in 1910. My world was cotton, cotton, and mo’ cotton. We used to say they would bury us neath the cotton gin when we was gone, and I believed it. Me and my brothers would pick cotton from daylight until late afternoon six days a week. I did that until I was old enough to be on my own and look for work elsewhere. I did try to join the army when I was of age, but got turned down because of my big flat feet. I finally found a job as a truck driver hauling pigs from Chicago to Memphis in the 1940’s. Chicago was a fine town in the 40’s. There were blues clubs all up and down Michigan Avenue. That’s where I met Muddy Waters. Muddy was the real deal. He would play his set and then still hang around the club until 3 or 4 in the morning and just jam with the local cats. That’s when I was introduced to him. I played a little guitar from my days growing up in the delta. Muddy said I had a unique delta blues sound to my licks. One thing led to another and before I knew it, every time I was in Chicago, we would hook up and jam after his gig. It wasn’t long before I was playing sets of blues with him on stage at the clubs in Chicago. We became good friends. I didn’t have enough money to afford a real nice guitar, so Muddy gave me ‘Sweetness’ that beautiful Martin 6 string before I moved on to Memphis in 1953. ‘Sweetness’ has been my only true love.” I sat there at the side of the bed and didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. Mr. Ray was telling it all, and I wasn’t about to interrupt.
“Let’s see, where was I? Oh yes, I moved on down to Memphis in 1953. I gave up the truck driving. I was making a name for myself in the music business by that time. I played almost every club on Beale Street. You know Beale Street, now don’t you son? I remember meeting a young Elvis Presley in 1954. He was driving a truck then too. He was always coming into the black clubs and listening to the blues that was played. That boy was always asking about the songs we played, the chords we played. He wanted to know everything he could learn. Elvis had a lot of questions. A real nice young man that Elvis. I remember giving him a little bit of advice one night after a hard set of the blues. I told him ‘always keep yo’ hands clean Elvis’. Muddy used to say that to me. He would say 'Don’t wash yo’ hands in Muddy Waters'. Who would have thought that Elvis would have a hit with that title? Washed my hands in Muddy Waters! Now if that don’t beat all! Now Mr. Jacobs, excuse me if I get a little excited with all this talking ‘bout the past. The doctor gots me on a pressure pill to keeps my blood down. He tell me not to get too excited.” As Mr. Ray took a break, a knock on the door sounded and a woman with a plate of rice and beans came into the room. “Mr. Ray, it’s Miss Nettie. I brought you that red beans and rice. I cooked them up special just like you asked.” “Come on in Miss Nettie,” Mr. Ray said. “I could smell you coming down the hall child.” I could tell it was time for me to leave. Mr Ray looked tired from our interview, and I didn’t want to keep him from his meal, so I bid him a farewell with the promise to come back the following week and continue where we had left off. I told Mr. Ray that I would get his story in the Hattiesburg American the next morning. As I was packing up my notepad and papers to leave, Mr. Ray asked me, “Rick, when you come back next week could you sneak me a small bottle of Jack Daniels? I know it’s against the rules here, but I won’t tell if you won’t.” I promised to bring him a small bottle, but it was just between the two of us. “Two peas in a pod” I said. “It’s a Mississippi delta blues thing,” was his comeback. We both laughed as I parted. I was already looking forward to next week.
I got back to Hattiesburg at 6 that evening and had my story in for print by 9 p.m. After a late supper I fell asleep on the couch. It only seemed like a few moments before the telephone rang, it was my editor Ed Bates. I looked up at the clock, it was already 7 a.m. Immediately I thought he was calling me to congratulate me on the stellar piece I wrote on Aldous Ray. Instead, I got jolted off of the couch with these words. “Rick, I’m sorry to tell you this. Aldous Ray passed away late last night. He had a stroke around midnight and died in the Emergency Room at the George County Hospital in Lucedale. By the way, your article on Mr. Ray was just what this paper needed. I hope that helps…take the next couple of days off. I’ll see you then.”
I was speechless, and with that news delivered, Ed hung up the telephone and I lay my head back down on the couch cushion and wept. The world had lost a living legend.
I awoke again at 10 a.m. to the ring of the telephone. It was the charge nurse of the Glen Oaks nursing home, Mrs. Jake Rounsaville. She asked if I would attend the funeral of Mr. Ray. The funeral was set for Saturday afternoon at the George County Funeral Home with burial to follow at the George County Memorial Gardens at 2 p.m. “Of course I will be there, Mrs. Rounsaville.” Yes, of course I would. Although having only met ‘Sonny Boy’ the day before, I undeniably felt a common bond with this man. A man who would be remembered as a pioneer of a style of music that was purely American.
I drove down to Lucedale the following Saturday morning. I didn’t attend the eulogy. I came as the burial service was concluding. I stood far in the back of the thirty or so people that had come out to pay their last respects to this remarkable gentleman. I recognized Mrs. Rounsaville in the crowd, and also Miss Nettie was there in her finest Sunday hat. After the service when everyone had gone their way I walked up to the gravesite. Freshly dug red dirt still moist from the earth awaited the shovel of the grave digger to cover the simple pine casket. Little did that soil know that it could never cover a legend. A legend indeed as I read the names inscribed on the numerous floral wreathes surrounding the open grave. Names like B.B. King, Buddy Guy, Muddy Waters, Elvis A. Presley, Eric Clapton. I went back to my car and retrieved the pint of Jack Daniels that I brought from Hattiesburg. I stood above his grave, opened the bottle and took a sip, then poured the remainder into the final resting place of my new friend.
I made it back home late that evening and slept until late Sunday morning. I spent most of Sunday evening listening to ‘Sonny Boy’s music. I had lost a friend. I considered myself blessed to have known him.
As I readied for work the next morning, I heard a knock on the front door. UPS had delivered a large package and set it on my front porch. A letter came with the delivery. It was from Mrs. Jake Rounsaville. It read, “Mr. Jacobs, before Mr. Ray passed away, he made it very clear to the attending nurse that he wanted you to have this. I am not sure of its worth, but I think it only proper to send it to you. You can certainly do with it as you please.” Sincerely, Mrs. Jake Rounsaville, Charge Nurse, Glen Oaks Nursing Home.
As I opened the large package, I realized I was staring at what I once wished that I could only hold. It had an Adirondack spruce top with scalloped braces, a Mahogany back and sides, and a Brazilian Rosewood fingerboard and bridge. It was ‘Sweetness’. It was high cotton indeed... 'Oh you pick cotton fifty cent a day, tote that cotton that's what I say...what I see when I look down...ain't no money in this ground'.