Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness around the world.

May 10, 2007

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Today’s Stories

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 ValueSpeak

A Weekly Column

By Joseph Walker

valuespeak@msn.com

TOUCHING BASS ON COMMON GROUND

            My teenage neighbor, Mikey, has taken up the electric bass guitar.  I know this because I could hear the pounding bum-bum-bum of his heavily amplified Fender late into the night last Saturday.  He was playing along with music that was coming – loudly – from his CD player.

            I didn’t recognize the song.  Heck, I barely recognized that it was music.  But I did recognize the passionate energy – if not the musical virtuosity – that was flowing from his soul to his fingers to the strings of his electric bass.  It was a feeling I remembered from my own bass-playing days, when I tried to keep up with Peter Cetera’s flying fingers as the Chicago Transit Authority album played on my Mom and Dad’s old RCA hi-fi.

            “I’m a man . . . yes I am . . . and I can’t help but love you so . . ”

            Bum-bum-bum-bum-BUUUM!

            I mentioned this to Mikey the next day at church. At first he was a little embarrassed that I had heard him. But when I told him that I was a fellow bassman and that I thought he sounded pretty good he seemed pleased.  And almost interested.

            “Did you play in a group or anything?” he asked.

            “Oh yeah,” I said with as much cool as a 52-year-old with short hair and a double chin can muster.  “I was in a few of ‘em.  We played dances and parties and stuff.  It was great.”

            Which was essentially true.  I did play in three or four rock bands.  Each one lasted for about one gig.  We’d play a party or a dance, and for some reason that I never fully understood there was no one clamoring for us to play again.  Ever.  So we didn’t (although there has been some talk of at least one Geezer Rock reunion tour – I’ll keep you posted).

            “So did you, like, do Woodstock?” Mikey wanted to know.

            At first I thought he was being facetious.  And maybe he was – a little.  But I could understand his logic (which in itself is a little frightening, now that I think about it): old guy plus bass plus rock band equals Woodstock.

            Doesn’t it?

            “Nah,” I told him.  “That was a little before my time.  I was only 14 when Woodstock happened.”  I was going to tell him that my particular age group was probably more responsible for disco, but I stopped myself.  I mean, seriously – who wants to take responsibility for the merciless slaughter of thousands of innocent little polyesters?

            Mikey and I chatted for a couple of minutes about the vicissitudes of playing the bass.  I empathized with the calluses he’s growing on his fingers, and I assured him that they will eventually be less painful.  We talked about picking versus plucking (I was always partial to plucking the strings with my fingers, but Mikey makes a good case for the cleaner, crisper sound you can get while using a pick).  And we both smiled knowingly when I shared with him this one infinite and eternal truth: “Chicks dig bass players.”

            “Oh, yeah,” Mikey said, with a sly chuckle.  “That’s for sure!”

            I don’t think I’m as sure of that as Mikey evidently is, but I am sure of this: for a few minutes last Sunday Mikey and I were not “old guy” and “teenager” – we were brothers, bound by four strings and a desire to make music.  Never mind that his idea of “music” is vastly different from mine.  Forget that he thinks “rap” is something you do with your voice, not your knuckles.  Don’t worry that he has more in common with Sanjaya than Santana.  None of that mattered on Sunday.  For a moment or two we stood together on common ground – which, it turns out, is not really all that difficult to find.

            Especially if you don’t mind the late-night bum-bum-bum.

Poetry Corner

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 Come On Back

By Nell Berry   

9/11/05

In the midst of 9-11, in the midst of attack,

Our Lord keeps saying, “Come on back”.

In the midst of Katrina, in the midst of Iraq,

our Lord is pleading, “Come on back”.

He said it would happen, He warned us of that,

in an effort to save us, He says, “Come on back”.

In the midst of the Garden He warned Adam and Eve,

 “Of the tree of knowledge, you may not eat”.

Before the Great Flood, Noah was sent.

He warned of disaster, but they would not repent.

On the mountain with Moses, God gave them the facts,

 “No worshipping idols. Come on back”.

In the midst of tribulation, In the midst of grief,

He’s always there saying, “Come back to me”.

In the midst of terror from a foreign attack,

our Father is pleading, “Come on back”.

What part of His word, is He going to retract?

He says, “Turn from your sin and come on back.

Nell Berry

louis_berry@bellsouth.net

IIChron. 7:14 If my people which are called by my name, will humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from Heaven, and will forgive their sin, and heal their land.

Bio: Nell Berry is a 74 year old mother of four grown children and grandmother of nine, plus two great granddaughters. She lives at Mark Twain Lake near Hannibal, MO.  She is the author of Growing Up In Missouri and Other Short Stories which was published a year ago by Publish America. She has a repertoire of several hundred poems which she has authored by the grace and mercy of God. She has been married to the same man, Louis B. Berry for a total of 55 years.

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Tears

Dianna Doles Petry

Tears fall gently,

Thoughts run wild,

I just want to hold him,

This broken child.

Tears fall quietly,

There's no one to hear,

He's lost and all alone,

Wishing he was here.

Tears fall like rain,

Where no one can see,

I know he's not mine,

But his pain is killing me.

Tears fall gently,

For the life he leads,

Little hope for tomorrow,

So many unfulfilled needs.

Tears fall quietly,

No one wants to hear,

I wish I could comfort him,

Hold him oh, so near.

Tears fall like rain,

All through the night,

Tossing and turning,

No way to make things right.

Tears keep falling,

Thoughts run wild,

No one to help him,

Another broken child.

©Dianna Doles Petry

4/10/2007

 dianna59@suddenlink.net

http://diannapetry.tripod.com
http://members.tripod.com/~poemsbydianna/PoetryofLife.html
www.womenwithauniquesoul.com
www.myspace.com/diannawv

 ~**~**~

Readers Feedback

 I want to thank you Mike, my friend for putting my bio at the end of my comment to you. That was three years ago when my book Growing Up In Missouri and Other Short Stories was released. So I am now 76 years old. Time marches on. We surely never get any younger do we? Unfortunately we see the passing of time and our bodies are visible evidence of it. The problem is our minds sometimes do not age with our bodies and we want to scream to everyone, "don't look at my body and the deterioration of it, the wrinkles, the extra pounds and the brown spots on our arms and legs. Look at me, I am inside this deteriorating body, my mind is not yet deteriorating." But whether we want to admit it or not our minds are slowly showing the evidence of the years we have experienced also. However, for those who look with disdain at the wrinkles and age spots; do not be deceived. You are quickly entering that stage of life also and will soon experience the aging process. I often feel the critical looks and stares of younger people and feel the animosity almost they feel towards the older generation and wonder if they think somehow they will escape the downhill slope that leads to gray hair, loss of it and the rest of the distasteful, almost repulsive stages we go through before our Maker finally says, "It's time."

Thanks again, Mike and forgive the wanderings of an old woman.

By His grace,

Nell

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