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.

Deep Space Juno

Cocoa Beach, Florida was feeling more like home each day. Throughout the summer I had surfed at least a few times each week and I had made my mark with the local surfers that hung out around the pier at the end of Meade Avenue waiting for that perfect set of waves. Late August was turning out to be a special season in my life. I wasn’t the best of the local surfers, but I was certainly the oldest. I wore my age of fifty four on my sleeve, and I was the first to let the young kids know I was old enough to be their grandfather. I think this endeared me to most of the locals. I felt welcomed whenever I came down to the beach to hang out and surf.

I still had an intense interest in the current operations at NASA, and I kept in contact with my old supervisor Wally Hunt on a weekly basis. Wally was like my Dad. He had been at NASA I guess going on forty years. I knew he planned to retire in the next couple of years, but he stayed on despite his age. He must be about seventy years old I thought, but there was not a sharper mind on the Cape. Wally had seen the Mercury, Gemini, Apollo, and Shuttle programs all come through NASA while serving in one position or another. He was now in charge of the Constellation program. The Constellation program came about to replace the space shuttle which was due for decommissioning later in the year. The Constellation program was the most aggressive undertaking NASA had ever attempted. That is exactly why I had a keen interest in the Cape. I wished silently that I was still with NASA as I walked back from the beach to my condominium. There was nothing keeping me here except the beach. No family, no significant other. There was someone once, but she had her own life in the space program, and I didn’t want to stand in her way and ask her to give up her dreams. I would admire her from afar I thought. After all I still had her name inked on my chest. So in a way, I carried her with me wherever I went….in a very personal way I thought to myself. Arriving back at the condo I gave Wally a call and arranged to meet with him for a quick lunch the following day. “Hello Wally, it’s Papa. Let’s do lunch tomorrow at the NASA cafeteria. Maybe you can fill me in on the Constellation program. I would love to hear about the new Orion capsule. I might even catch a glimpse of you know who and let her know how I have been.” I could hear frustration in Wally’s voice as he replied, “Sure Papa, let’s do lunch. See you about noon. I’ll fill you in on the current news here."

The following day, I drove in to the Cape. I passed by the smart salute of the gate guard who recognized me from when I worked at NASA. I greeted Wally at the employee’s cafeteria. That’s when he let me in on some privileged information. “Papa, the Constellation program is on line. We are going to go with an early morning launch from a single booster Ares 1 rocket in four weeks. The President of the United States put this mission at the top of his priority. The Senate has funded the program in secret due to the sensitive nature of the program’s mission. The Orion capsule that we will be sending into space will be commanded by one astronaut, Major Bud Knight. It’s a four year mission Papa. A mission to Jupiter and back….did you hear me Papa? Papa, I said JUPITER!” It’s a mission to map the planet's magnetic fields, measure the amount of water and ammonia in the Jovian atmosphere and observe the auroras. Papa, I know you still have your Top Secret clearance, so grab your sandwich and follow me to my office will you?” My mind went numb, and I was speechless for almost a minute until I comprehended the entirety of what Wally said. “Jupiter? Wally, we haven’t even been to Mars! For God’s sake Wally, who in their right mind would be willing to give up four years of their life to go to Jupiter?” Then just as soon as I had asked the question, the answer came to me…..I would. I would be willing to go! Yes, I mean what is holding me here? I have no one to come home to. “Send me Wally! Don’t you see? I would be perfect for the mission. I know all there is to know about mapping magnetic fields, measuring atmospheric gases. Wally you have to let me be a standby. Please!” Arriving at Wally’s office, he closed the door and then proceeded to tell me exactly why Jupiter was on the President’s list of top priorities. “Papa, I don’t have to tell you the devastation that the Shoemaker-Levy 9 comet left on the surface of Jupiter. If the same thing happened to our planet, we wouldn’t be sitting here talking of space travel I can assure you that. The Hubble telescope has picked up a comet travelling along a path in the outer edges of our galaxy, and if our guys in operations are correct with their math, there is a ninety three percent chance that earth will suffer the same consequences as Jupiter in the fall of 2045. You do remember what happened to Jupiter’s southern hemisphere don’t you Papa? I don’t have to remind you that a three kilometer fragment of the Levy comet impacted with the force of six hundred million tons of TNT. That was enough to send a plume of space debris three thousand kilometers into the Jovian atmosphere. That was just one of the hundreds of the fragments that struck Jupiter that day. It would mean the end of earth as we know it Papa. That’s why we are pushing ahead with our launch to Jupiter. There is not a minute to waste. We need to know everything we can about the impact, the gases that persist in the Jovian atmosphere, everything.” “Wally, I want to go, please….put me on standby.” “Papa, I do owe you that much for what you did for NASA with the recent rescue of Sam on her ill begotten mission to Mars. I’ll let you know what the council decides after our meeting this afternoon. Don’t hold your breathe Papa, although I hear you are pretty good at it.” “Very funny Wally. Get back to me as soon as you hear anything. You know my cell.” On my drive back to Cocoa Beach I felt sick at my stomach knowing that there was a good chance all life on earth would end in approximately 36 years. I got home and opened up a bottle of Tequila I had been saving for a special occasion. I drank half of the bottle and went to bed.

At approximately 0630 the following morning I was awakened by my cell phone. I was too hung over to answer and I allowed it to take a message. At 0800 I awoke and saw the missed call was from Wally at the Cape. The message said, “Papa, get down to the Cape as fast as you can. Major Knight has broken his ankle in a fall. You are going to Jupiter my friend.” I put on my best pair of old jeans, jumped into my car and sped to the Cape. I flew by the smart salute of the gate guard and headed straight to Bldg. 1 where Wally and his team were waiting for my arrival. I felt like an old warrior being recalled to active duty. This was my calling.

“Let’s get busy, Wally said. First, an orientation of the command module Orion. That should take a couple of days, then the orientation to the Ares 1 booster, and then the orientation to the upper and lower stages of the command modules J2X engine. That’s the engine you will depend upon to put you into an orbit around Jupiter, and then put you in a trajectory for your return back to Earth. One more thing I haven’t mentioned Papa. If anything goes wrong during your mission, you have the option of placing yourself in cryogenic suspension. Now at this time, there is no way for science to bring you back if you choose this option, but maybe in the future, well….we don’t know.” “Wally, let’s get busy. I have a lot of catching up to do. This is definitely not the Lapin Blanc I’m dealing with.”

The following few weeks went by quickly. I spent every available second of my day learning the intricacies of the Orion and the Constellation Program. The operation finally had a name. It was Deep Space Juno. I had already gone deeper than any man with my recent dive to Challenger Deep on board the Alvin-2. Now I would go farther than any man had gone. I felt like an Olympian, ‘Citius, Altius, Fortius’…I thought well at least I have kept my sense of humor about it all. I felt good about the launch and my knowledge to accomplish the mission that was set before me. The only regret I had was leaving Sam. If only I could see her one more time before I left the grip of earth’s hold tomorrow. It was time to get some rest and I headed back to my quarters at the pre-launch barracks; a place that I had called home for the past few weeks.
I awoke at 0400 and was transported to the pre-flight holding area. I was fitted into my space suit. Wally entered the room before my helmet was secured onto the suit and offered me a double shot of tequila. Downing the tequila in a single swallow, I thought this would be the last taste of my favorite nectar for the next four years. I didn’t know what my future held. My condo sold, all my belongings were placed in government storage. I hoped someday to be back and claim my life once again, but for now it was all about Jupiter. “Let’s get this helmet on gentlemen”, I said. With those simple words, I was enclosed into the suit, my life, my destiny. A three mile transport out to the launch pad and I was taken up by elevator to the crew module and strapped in. The hatch closed and locked from the outside. Radio communications opened to the control center, and I heard the countdown commence. “T minus one minute and counting, all systems are go for launch of Operation Deep Space Juno.” My thoughts turned to Sam as I heard the deliberate countdown continue. “Four, three, two, one….we have ignition. We have liftoff of the Orion module with Commander Papa K. Pennebaker, commanding. God’s speed Commander. We’ll see you back in 2013.” The strong and unfamiliar push of the Ares I rocket engine gave me a full seven G’s of force pushing me hard back into the seat of the Orion capsule. The heads up display quickly went from sky blue to the dark black of space, and then the stars appeared as bright as I ever remembered. I was back in the saddle. It would be a full two years until I reached my destination of Jupiter’s southern hemisphere.

Hours became days, days became weeks, then months, then the anniversary of the launch arrived. I celebrated with a squeeze tube of American cheddar and something we called a ‘space wafer’ at NASA. Not bad food I thought especially since I’m two hundred million miles from the nearest McDonald’s. I thought this might be a great time to start singing ninety nine bottles of beer on the wall, but then reality set in and I knew I had real work to do. I would play the alliteration game. OK, how many words can I come up with? This was a favorite between Sam and me when we used to get together for dinner. I had come up with a winner once. It went like this: Argentineans asphyxiate alcoholics around August and agitate Alaska, although apathetic Americans allow aggressive Argentinean attacks against Albania Alcoholics Anonymous agents attempt assaults against Argentina; amusing assholes, apparently! Alabaster ain’t allowed around Argentina anymore. The boredom overcame me daily. The highlight of my day was being awakened by the sound of mission control playing a goofy song; then again each evening I would get another. As I readied for sleep this anniversary night anticipating my song I got quite a surprise. “Commander Papa….Papa can you hear me, over?” It was Sam. I had not heard her speak since the summer of 2009. “Yes, yes….I hear you Lieutenant Sam. It’s great to hear your voice, over.” “That’s Lieutenant Commander Sam to you Commander, over.” “Congratulations Lieutenant Commander. I am very proud of you and your accomplishments. Did you have a big party, over?” “No Papa, my husband and I just stayed at home and had a glass of wine and nice dinner, over.” Husband? I didn’t know she married. I had no idea she was in a relationship. I was crushed, but knew it was my fault for not allowing her to know my true feelings for her. “That’s wonderful, I said. Hey maybe we can get together, all of us when I get back and do lunch…uh…over.” “Papa, that would be great…are you OK, over?” "Oh yeah, yeah, I’m just great, couldn’t be better. Hey I should go. You know…gotta get my sleep…busy day tomorrow, over.” “Roger that Commander, I’ll see you when you return, over.” With that the communication ended and I drifted off into a lonely restless sleep. I awoke the following day knowing for certain I had nothing to come back home to. I would risk completing the task of surveying Jupiter and it’s atmosphere with daring abandon. As long as my data was transmitted back to earth, I really didn’t care if I made it back home. This would be my final mission, I was certain of that.

One year turned into eighteen months, then twenty, then finally Jupiter loomed large in the heads up display. Two full years had passed since I launched at the Cape. I was ready to get down to work. This is why I had become an astronaut, what I had trained all my life to do. “Mission control, I am approaching the gravitational pull of Jupiter, firing retrograde J2X engine to facilitate merge into Jovian orbit.” “Roger that Commander Pennebaker, fire J2X upon mark…three two, one, mark.” “Roger mission control, firing J2X." As I flipped the switch to slow the Orion by retro engagement, nothing happened. Again, I flipped the control switch to engage the J2X retro rocket, and again nothing happened. “Mission control, I have a negative engagement on the J2X, be advised that I cannot control the rocket from Orion control. Please remotely attempt to engage, over.”

“Commander Pennebaker, this is mission control. The Orion does not have this fail-safe option built in to it’s system. You will have to engage the engine from your end.” “Get me Wally Hunt now. Do you hear me? I want Wally Hunt now!” Less than one minute later I had Wally on the other end of my communication channel.. Four hundred million miles separated me and the Cape. I had never felt farther away from home in my life.

Wally came on the line, “Papa, it’s Wally. You’ll need to do what you can from the Orion module. There wasn’t enough time to build a remote fail-safe ignition system into the Constellation program. We put a rush on this one I’m afraid to say. The President wanted this launch as soon as possible. The command remote ignition was an oversight.. I’m so sorry.” “Wally, what am I going to do? I’m passing Jupiter as we speak. If I don’t slow down into Jupiter’s orbit I’ll continue out into deep space and end up dying of old age inside this craft. Wally, what am I going to do?” “Papa, I know you will do what you have to do. You have been in dangerous situations before and have always found a way out. Papa, if all else fails, you know you have the cryogenic suspension system on board. I’m not telling you to use it, but if you find yourself in a no win situation, you know it’s available.” "Wally, I understand. I’ll keep in contact with you via mission control, but before I sign off, what is the date?" “It’s November 23rd, 2011. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, Papa. We’ll say a prayer for you.” "Thanks Wally. Send Sam my love. This is Commander Papa K. Pennebaker..out."

The following six months passed by slowly as I continued on a trip far past my intended target. I was now approaching the outer edges of Earth’s solar system. What lay beyond was only seen by the Hubble Space Telescope. Mapping of this zone had not even begun, and I knew that once I entered there would be no rescue. I had decided that if rescue had not come by the six month mark, I would put myself into cryo-suspension. I had gone to a class back at the Cape in preparation of the liftoff to Jupiter and had learned the basics of cryo-suspension. I had to wear a special undergarment, then slip into a special gold foil suit and cover my eyes with a special darkened lens. Oh, and no metal could be touching my skin. No rings, necklaces, etc. All this in hopes of a deep space rescue one day, and by that time cryo-resusitation and neural preservation might be a reality.

I gave it all another month, and then with no hesitation, I prepared the cryo module to accept my body for the remainder of time. My best guess was that I would go to sleep and never awaken. At this point in my life it almost sounded good. I disrobed from the routine module garment that I wore on a typical day, and slipped into the special suit I would wear until I was found. I almost forgot to remove the crucifix I wore around my neck in honor of my guardian angel, Natividad. Where was she when I needed her the most I thought? Maybe she was angry at me for not telling her granddaughter how I truly felt about her. Maybe she was angry at me because I was a Buddhist. Whatever the reason, it seemed I would not be rescued by her this time. Maybe it was finally my time, and I would meet with her on the other side. That’s it, I thought. It must be my time. I removed the crucifix from around my neck and tossed it into the module cabin. I figured I would never need it again. I lay down in the cryo module, flipped the switch to turn on the system, and went to sleep.

Star Date 2032. USS Regal Empress patrolling the outer quadrant of the Pegasus constellation, near the position of star Pegrasi-51. “Captain, you are wanted on the bridge. We are picking up a distinct rhythmic pulse coming from the orbit of Pegrasi-51.” “This is the Captain, I’ll be right up.” Within minutes, Captain John Kelly was on the bridge discussing the rhythmic signal with the watch officer. “Skipper, we have been picking up this audio signal for the past 20 minutes. I don’t know what to make of it. It’s probably nothing, but I would suggest a closer look.” “Good work Ensign Parker, takes us in closer and let’s see if the signal changes, and if we can get a visual on its origin.” “Aye-Aye, Sir. Navigation, thirty degrees port, half speed, quarterdeck up visual display." Within five minutes Captain Kelly knew exactly what the origin of the rhythmic ping was. “Come to dead speed. Maintain visual on craft”, came the orders from Captain Kelly. “Ensign Parker, hail NASA on secure clearance and put it through to my cabin.” “Aye-Aye Sir.” When the Captain reached his wardroom he had a shocking surprise for NASA. “This is Captain Kelly, Commanding Officer of the USS Regal Empress. Let me speak with whoever is in charge at NASA.” “This is Gus Crawford at NASA, you are speaking to him. What can we do for you Captain?” “Mr. Crawford, we have located the lost Orion capsule in the Pegasus constellation. It is intact, and emitting an audio signal. What do you want us to do with your spacecraft?” “Mother of God, Captain Kelly! It can’t be! That craft was lost on the initial Jupiter expedition in 2011. That was twenty one years ago.” “I know my history Mr. Crawford; I’m a graduate of the Naval Academy. The Constellation program and Commander Pennebaker are common names at Annapolis. Matter of fact, Commander Pennebaker was my instructor back in 2007 when I graduated from the Astronaut program. I both respected and admired him. Again Mr. Crawford, what do you want us to do with the craft?” “Bring it aboard Captain, and keep me posted on what you find.” Roger that Mr. Crawford, roger that.” Captain Kelly returned to the bridge with a sense of new found dedication. He would be the one to bring Papa home, albeit dead.

“Ensign Parker, put me on hailing frequency. USS Orion, this is the galactic warship USS Regal Empress, we are here to take you home. USS Orion, this is the galactic warship USS Regal Empress, we are here to take you home. Prepare to be transported aboard. Ensign open the cargo bay, engage tractor beams and bring aboard the USS Orion and Commander Pennebaker’s body.” “Aye-Aye Captain, tractor beams engaged.”

As the Orion was slowly pulled into the cargo hold of the Regal Empress the crew could make out hundreds of tiny pits in the metal of the Orion module. Years of micro space debris, years of subjection to damaging solar radiation had taken a toll on the craft. With due reverence, the hatch of the Orion was opened for the first time in twenty three years.

The audible electronic ping soon was found to be caused by a crucifix attached to a necklace that had wrapped against the communication pod of the Orion. In the recesses of the Orion was where the body of Commander Pennebaker solemnly lay in the cryo module. The module was still functioning and running all these years thanks to the solar panels located on the outside of the Orion. “Summon the ship’s doctor to the cargo bay Ensign Parker. Let’s not rush to assume anything until we get all the facts.” “Aye-Aye Captain. Dr. Kathryn Bartolome you are wanted in the cargo bay ASAP", came the announcement over the ship’s loudspeaker. Within minutes, Dr. Bartolome was examining the frozen body of Commander Pennebaker. “I don’t know Captain, we could try to resuscitate him and perform neural preservation if that’s needed. It’s been over two decades since he put himself into this state. We’ve never attempted to resuscitate someone who has been frozen this long.” “Dr. Bartolome, do everything you can. We owe Commander Pennebaker that. We have to give him at least a fighting chance.” “I’ll start immediately Captain. Let’s get the Commander to sick bay”, came the order from Dr. Bartolome.

Commander Pennebaker’s body was taken and placed in a slow warming regenerator. His body completely submerged inside a warming bath of isotonic fluids that were temperature controlled by Dr. Bartolome. The process of cryo-resusitation and neural regeneration which was developed by NASA only ten years earlier usually took twenty four hours. Papa had been in the isotonic warming bath for forty eight hours without any signs of life. It wasn’t until the sixtieth hour when Dr. Bartolome summoned Captain Kelly to sick bay. “Sir, we have a pulse, and brain wave activity. I think the Commander is going to make it.” “Good job Kathryn, I mean Dr. Bartolome. The country owes you one, I owe you one. Let me know if you see any significant changes. I’ll notify NASA.”

I awoke on the third day after being placed in cryo-resusitation. At least that’s what I was told. I had lost the last twenty years of my life, but for all practical purposes I still was in my mid fifties. I looked the same as I did when I launched back in 2009. I had so many questions to ask, but first the most important thing on my mind was asking Dr. Kathryn Bartolome to hold me to prove she was real. “Hold me please; let me know you are real.” For the first time in a long time I felt the touch of another person. I knew I was alive. “I’m so cold, please just never let go.” I see that my sense of humor remained intact. Anything for a hug I thought.

Captain Kelly entered the room with a smile and handshake. “So do you know where you are, who you are, what year it is, he asked?” Yes, I’m aboard the USS Regal Empress I’m told, it’s 2032, and I’m Commander Papa K. Pennebaker.” “Wrong”, came the skipper’s reply. You are not Commander Papa K. Pennebaker. You were promoted during your little vacation. You were never declared dead, only missing in action. Your new name is Captain Papa K. Pennebaker. Congratulations Captain!” I never thought I would live to see the day I would be a Naval Captain. Now I could buy me a real nice surf board I thought…just got to get myself back to Cocoa.

The voyage back to NASA took less than 1 month. Advances in string technology had pushed the time it took to travel from one constellation to the next into days instead of years. During the down time I had on the voyage home, I learned that my good friend Wally Hunt passed away some fifteen years earlier. I shed too many tears that night, but found strength in his friendship and his belief in me throughout our association at the Cape. I also found out that Sam was now Commander Abjelina. She lived in Pensacola, Florida, and was an instructor for new student aviators entering the naval service. Her marriage had fallen apart only after one year, and she never remarried. She would be fifty years old now I thought. I imagined that she was still as beautiful and full of life as ever. I wondered if this time we could have a chance? I did know one thing, and that was as soon as I got back to the Cape I was going to find that half bottle of Tequila I left in my gear back in 2009, and I was going to get drunk.

Upon arrival at the Cape I was greeted to a hero’s welcome. I never looked at it like that. I was doing a job I loved doing. The boys in operations who bet on a comet collision with earth were way off in their calculations. There was not a ninety three percent chance of a comet colliding with earth. There was a 9.3 percent chance of a comet colliding with earth in 2045. Those were the calculations back in 2009. Now in 2032 the odds were even less. There was a .00093 chance of a comet colliding with earth. You had a better chance of being struck by lightning while going over the Niagara Falls in a barrel while playing the kazoo than the earth being destroyed by this comet. Thanks guys in operations….what you don’t know can actually kill you, it almost killed me.

That night I was given VIP quarters at NASA. I had a drink, found a few blankets and lay down for a good sleep. I dreamed of the Regal Empress, I dreamed of what ifs and I dreamed of my guardian angel Natividad. It was the crucifix banging the communication pod that made that rhythmic ping. The necklace with the crucifix swinging back and forth upon the instrument panel. It was Natividad saving me once again. Then a knock on the door awoke me in the dark, and I heard her voice…”It’s your Regal Empress. I’m here to save you." Then another knock and again the voice said, "It’s your Regal Empress. I’m here to save you." The door suddenly opened and I knew it was Sam from the scent of the only perfume she ever wore. “Hold me please; let me know if you are real…just hold me and never let me go.”

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'.

Life With Sophie

My granddaughter Sophie will be moving to Okinawa,Japan in a month. She will be away for at least two years. I have certainly enjoyed being around her for the past year. She's now about 17 months old, and so fun to be with.
Today while looking through the photos of our day at the park this past Thanksgiving I got quite sentimental. We had a great time on the slide, and the merry go round. After the park we went down to see the horses. The horses actually came up to her. They knew she was special, just like everyone who meets her knows. I've become quite enamored with her cute laugh, her sweet smile and her trusting hugs. Life is so wonderful and full of surprises around every corner...just wish this corner didn't lead to Japan.

Biscuits By The Grace of God

Following in the footsteps of those who came before me is no easy task. Words like commitment, sacrifice, and love are all qualities that I learned growing up in Lucedale, Mississippi as a child in the Pennebaker household. I saw it played out daily in my home. My parents were my teachers, and I am blessed that they taught me those principles. I learned what mattered was not what you have, but rather what you have to offer. I can remember my daddy inviting door to door traveling salesmen into the home and feeding them dinner because they were either young and scared or looked hungry. I recall stories of my grandfather leaving thanksgiving turkeys on the doorsteps of needy families during the night. Granddaddy wouldn’t even stay around for a thank you. He would just knock on the door and walk away. I can remember Mama and the breakfast she made everyday for the family. Mama would get up before anyone else and have the table set before waking us to come and eat. I really miss the smell of biscuits coming from that tiny kitchen. That smell brings me to the reason I’m writing this.
This morning before climbing out of bed I thought for sure I smelled those biscuits. I was in that unique state between wakefulness and sleep, somewhere between Lucedale, Mississippi and Pensacola, Florida. I was again ten years old and my stomach was growling. As the smell of those biscuits made its way down the hall and finally into my bedroom, I couldn’t take it another second. I sat up in bed, put my feet on the floor, and with the aches and pains of a bad knee remembered that I was fifty four, and it was all a dream. Bittersweet memories of home, of my parents now gone, an aging body, and an empty table awaiting me downstairs was suddenly my reality. I immediately realized I had a choice to make. I could either fall back into bed, which I was heavily in favor of, or I could make that breakfast myself. With all the enthusiasm I could muster, I chose to do what Mama would have done. This Southern boy was going to have his biscuits.
Jimmy Dean pure pork sausage, check. Pillsbury buttermilk biscuits, yes! Fig preserves! Oh, God is so good. Everything I need sitting before me in the refrigerator. A bag of Starbucks coffee in the cupboard was a plus. 450 degrees and a cup of coffee later I was sitting down at the table with my breakfast. The phrase ‘southern ambrosia’, passed through my head as I readied that biscuit like a Marine would ready his uniform before an inspection. I made two for myself. One with fig preserves. Not just fig preserves, but fig preserves that I had made earlier in the summer from our own fig tree. The other I prepared ala ‘Steven Martinez’ style. Steven and I were combat medics attached to a Marine unit stationed out of Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. Steven taught me how to make the combat MRE’s more appealing by adding Tabasco sauce to everything. I grew to like it quite a bit. So the second biscuit was smothered in that piquant hot sauce from New Iberia, Louisiana. Now it was time to eat. I stopped an inch short of putting that biscuit to my mouth and remembered why all this busy work began in the first place.
As I put the biscuit back down in the plate, I bowed my head and thanked God for giving me my family, for giving me the food set before me, and also for giving me the parents I had growing up in south Mississippi. I realized that it was much deeper than just putting food on the table. It was also about love, accountability, and tradition. I almost wished for a moment that a young hungry salesman would knock on the door. How I would love to share this second biscuit with him. Even if he gets the one smothered in Tabasco sauce.