Like a Sad Song

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"Sometimes I feel like a sad song
Like I'm all alone without you."

John Denver
"Like a Sad Song" (1976)

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Today is the first day of August.

When I was a child, the arrival of August meant that the lazy days of summer were nearing their end, and it would be time to return to the classroom before long.

I'm back in the classroom these days, teaching journalism and writing at the local community college, but August has more significance than that for me now.

August is a bittersweet time for me, and the anniversaries come at me rapidly.

One year ago on Friday, my friend Phyllis died of pneumonia.

Twenty years ago on Sunday, another good friend of mine named Mike died after a brief battle with an especially aggressive form of cancer.

And this month would have been a milestone birthday for my mother, who died in 1995.

It is appropriate for me, I suppose, that this month is also the 35th anniversary of John Denver's release of his tune "Like a Sad Song."

I've written in this blog of my mother's fondness for Denver's music. I don't know how Phyllis or Mike felt about it.

Speaking of Mom, I don't specifically recall if she sang along with this recording — or if she even had it in her collection — the way she often did with other John Denver songs.

It wasn't really her style. It wasn't as cheery or upbeat as most of the folk music she tended to favor. In fact, it was really more like a blues piece — in my opinion. I don't think Mom had anything against the blues, but "Like a Sad Song" really was, as Denver says in the attached video, a saloon song — and that really wasn't Mom's thing.

But the song — one of the few Denver recordings to be ranked in the Top 10 on the adult contemporary charts in both the U.S. and Canada — seems right for thoughts of those three this month. I'm not completely sure why. The lyrics speak of supposedly young lovers sharing their lives — and that isn't what any of those relationships were about.

Still, the music is pretty. It kind of reminds me of a flute solo, which in turn reminds me of Phyllis. When she died last year, I wrote of her great talent as a musician, and I think it will always be one of my strongest memories of her. It is probably no coincidence that, when I think of really beautiful music, I think of the flute. That was Phyllis' instrument.

And the words are kind of haunting and wistful. With a slightly different spin, they could apply to all three relationships.

These days, my memories of those three dance lightly in my head, and they become intertwined at times. And "Like a Sad Song" plays in my mind like the soundtrack to those thoughts and memories.

A few years after Mom died, I picked up a CD collection of Denver's best songs. "Like a Sad Song" is on it — and, on occasion in recent weeks, I have listened to it. And I have thought about Mom, Phyllis and Mike.

I miss them all. Sometimes I do feel like a sad song.

Gone With the Wind Turns 75

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"When a Southerner took the trouble to pack a trunk and travel twenty miles for a visit, the visit was seldom of shorter duration than a month, usually much longer. Southerners were as enthusiastic visitors as they were hosts, and there was nothing unusual in relatives coming to spend the Christmas holidays and remaining until July."

Margaret Mitchell
"Gone With the Wind"

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Margaret Mitchell's Pulitzer Prize–winning novel "Gone With the Wind" was first published 75 years ago in May.

I was a teenager when the movie that was based on the novel was first shown on network television. It was the highest–rated program in TV history (it has been surpassed a few times since then), and I remember watching it in a special two–night presentation.

Shortly thereafter, I read the book.

My friend Phyllis, who died last summer (and of whom I have written in this blog and in my current events blog), introduced me to the book — and, because of her, I bought a paperback copy.

It really was a wonderful story. When you got right down to it, it was about a spoiled Southern girl who was hopelessly in love with a married man. I grew up in the South, and I knew many girls like her. In my experience, it was a timeless tale that could be told against the backdrop of the Civil War or the civil rights movement.

I had known for a long time that Phyllis loved the movie — but I always thought that was because she loved Clark Gable. I don't know why it never occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, Phyllis loved the book first — and her affection for the movie and Clark Gable came next.

I never asked her about that so I'll probably never know which came first, and it really doesn't matter. It's a great book, rich with details about life in the South and a period in American history that no one now living (and, for the most part, no one living when the book was published in 1936, either) can recall.

I still have that paperback copy. In fact, I'm looking at it right now. I've been thumbing through it, and it's in remarkably good shape, considering all the moves it has survived — and that is certainly appropriate.

Wherever I have lived in my adult life, that book has been with me. I will always be grateful to Phyllis for introducing me to it.

(I remember showing her my copy the day after I bought it. We were sitting in some class together, and I handed it to her. She thumbed through it, smiled, said something to me that I have forgotten and handed the book back to me.

(Whatever DNA she might have left on that book is probably long gone, but I'd be willing to bet that her fingerprints can still be found on it.)

If you've seen the movie, you know the story. There are just so many details in the book that couldn't be worked into the movie — even though the movie was nearly four hours long.

Conversations are more extensive in the book than they are in the movie, and the reader gets the opportunity to dive more deeply into the characters' thoughts and motivations.

And the burning of Atlanta, as vivid as it is in the movie, seems to go on endlessly in the book, recapturing what must have been the absolute terror of the people of that time and place.

Slavery is part of the story's backdrop, but it isn't really what the book is about — just as it wasn't what the war was about at first. However, the book did have a tendency to present the slaves as being considerably more content with their lot in life than I would have expected.

That led to an interesting point about the social hierarchy that existed in the slave population. There was, as a British writer who visited the South a few years before the outbreak of the war noted, a difference between slaves who were house servants and slaves who were field hands. The "most important distinction," he wrote, was that the house servants were "comparatively well off."

Consequently, it was realistic when Mitchell's book suggested that the house servants at Tara were loyal and remained with Scarlett even after they had been freed by the Emancipation Proclamation — whereas the field hands did not hesitate to leave when they could.

Mitchell was criticized for some things. She was accused of sugar–coating the activities of the Ku Klux Klan and of penning a racist portrayal of black Americans of that time.

But people who focus on those things miss the point of the story. It isn't about the Klan. It isn't about slavery. It isn't even about a spoiled Southern girl who is fixated on a married man.

It's about survival, as Mitchell herself said.

"What makes some people come through catastrophes and others, apparently just as able, strong and brave, go under?" she asked. "It happens in every upheaval. Some people survive; others don't. What qualities are in those who fight their way through triumphantly that are lacking in those that go under? I only know that survivors used to call that quality 'gumption.' So I wrote about people who had gumption and people who didn't."

That quality was summed up in Scarlett's final line in both the book and the movie: "After all, tomorrow is another day."

Tax Day

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"For to whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required."

Luke 12:48

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George Harrison was always a spiritual kind of guy, easily the most spiritual of the Beatles.

So it's probably appropriate, when all is said and done, to mention his song "Taxman" — since today is this year's deadline for submitting income taxes — and that passage from Luke today.

I guess anyone who plays that song on the deadline for mailing in tax returns does so in a tongue–in–cheek fashion — like the post offices that frequently have been known to play the song on their sound systems for last–minute filers who line up to mail their returns.

Several years ago, it was used as part of the commercial campaign for a prominent tax preparation service. I guess that meant the song had come full circle.

Over the years, it has become my default song on Tax Day — even on those rare occasions in my life when I have received a refund.

Harrison wrote the song out of frustration and anger over being heavily taxed by the British government — and who could blame him? The British progressive tax placed him in its highest bracket, resulting in a 95% supertax.

He began recording the song almost exactly 45 years ago, on April 20, 1966, and it was released on the Beatles' "Revolver" album in August of that year.

"Revolver" deserves to be written about at length, and I plan to do so later this summer. The 45th anniversary of its release, in fact, will be the first anniversary of the death of a dear friend of mine named Phyllis, and I expect to write about her on that day, too.

Phyllis, as I have written before, was an accomplished musician. She and I never discussed "Taxman" or "Revolver," but I know she liked the Beatles — and, I suspect, she liked the song and the album.

That's just speculation, of course. I'll never know if she liked either one. I can only guess.

To misquote the old advertising jingle — everybody doesn't like something ...

But nobody likes paying taxes.

You didn't have to be George Harrison to understand that.

Paying the Fiddler

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"This would be a great world to dance in if we didn't have to pay the fiddler."

Will Rogers

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It was three–quarters of a century ago today that America lost one of its most beloved humorists, Will Rogers.

Deaths are often described as tragic. That seems like a bit of an exaggeration to me. Most deaths are regrettable. And some rise to the level of tragic.

Rogers' death really was tragic. He and pilot Wiley Post died when their plane crashed in Alaska. Rogers was 55 years old.

(I guess it is both ironic and tragic that former Sen. Ted Stevens perished in a plane crash in Alaska earlier this week. Stevens was in his 80s — and, while it is seldom a shock when someone in that age group dies, the circumstances must be seen as tragic. The ironic part, I suppose, is the fact that a well–known person died in a plane crash in Alaska only a few days before the 75th anniversary of Rogers' death.

(It is of little or no consolation to those who lost loved ones on Tuesday, but this is a reminder that technological advancements have not conquered all things.

(To put this into perspective, I suppose, Stevens would have been 11 years old when Rogers' plane went down. But he wasn't living in Alaska at that time in his life. He was born in Indiana, where he lived until sometime in his teens. He did not come to Alaska until he was an adult.)

Along with Mark Twain, I guess Rogers is my favorite humorist of all time.

And let me be clear about something here. I differentiate between humorists and comedians.

When I think of a humorist, I think of a writer, first and foremost — and it ought to be clear to anyone who reads my blogs that I have a special reverence for writers. Twain was a writer, noted for his newspaper and novel writing. Rogers was a writer, too. He did other things, among them entertaining people in vaudeville and in the movies, but he was a writer. In fact, he wrote his newspaper column while he and Post were flying across Alaska in the summer of 1935.

I like a good comedian, too, but I think of comedians as people who tell jokes on a stage. They can be more than that — my absolute favorite comedian of all time, George Carlin, was more than just a joke teller. He was also an author in his later years.

But Carlin made his reputation with his stage comedy. His "Seven Words You Can't Say on Television" shtick will still be a classic decades from now — even if, as seems likely, it becomes routine for all seven words to be uttered on television (which, undoubtedly, will render that once–scandalous routine quaint, and wouldn't that amuse Carlin?).

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In the summer of 1994, the year before my mother died,
my parents paid a visit to the Will Rogers Memorial
in Claremore, Okla., where the humorist is entombed.

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Will Rogers was a humorist, perhaps the last true humorist this country has had (well, maybe that's an exaggeration in a country that has produced the likes of Mike Royko and Erma Bombeck since Rogers' death). And, no matter which side of the political fence his readers occupied, they all loved him. Maybe that is why he said, "I never met a man I didn't like."

(To give you an idea of just how open–minded Rogers was, he said that about Leon Trotsky.)

Maybe it was a mutual admiration thing. Everyone liked him so he liked everybody.

I can't help feeling that there is a certain amount of harmony at work here on the 75th anniversary of Rogers' untimely death. It kind of appeals to my sense of order.

In my hometown tomorrow, a memorial service will be held for my friend Phyllis, who died on August 5 (which happens to be the anniversary of Marilyn Monroe's death — an ironic note, given that Phyllis was an old movie buff). I've been writing a lot about Phyllis at my Freedom Writing blog since she died, and I expect to write about her from time to time in the future. She had that kind of influence on me.

She brought a lot of love and a lot of laughter into the lives of everyone who knew her. I think just about all her friends would agree that she, like Rogers, never met anyone she didn't like.

And just about everyone liked her, too.

She was human, of course, and, therefore, must have rubbed a few people the wrong way in her life, but their number must be few.

As I think about my friendship with Phyllis, I remember many laughs, and I recall that we spoke about many things. But I don't remember talking much about humorists and comedians.

Oh, we talked about funny performers we both enjoyed watching in movies, like Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon and Peter Sellers, and we talked about the TV sitcoms we liked. But I don't remember talking about Will Rogers, and I do regret that.

Especially now that she, like Rogers, has paid the fiddler.

My time for that will come as well. And, if the afterlife exists, I am sure I will see her again.

But I will always be sorry that we never discussed Rogers and Twain in this life.

I really doubt the subject will come up in the next world.

I'm Glad I Didn't Know

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Whether you read what I write at this blog or my other blogs, you're probably getting tired of reading about my friend Phyllis, who passed away last week.

She's going to be a tough topic for me to let go — even after next Monday, when many of our mutual friends are sure to be in our hometown of Conway, Ark., for her memorial service. I can't be there, but I still have a very strong feeling that I'm never going to shake her, that she will always be there in the recesses of my mind, whatever I do, wherever I go.

And I will probably feel a need to write about her from time to time in the future. Sometimes, I am sure, it will be because something has reminded me of her. And other times, I am sure, it will simply be because I miss her.

I was on the phone last night with a mutual friend who is in Conway working on the plans for the memorial service. He seems to be holding up well, although there were times in our conversation when he sounded like he was struggling to maintain his composure. And I know there were times when I struggled to maintain mine.

Phyllis loved and appreciated music, all kinds of music. Really, it went beyond that. She was very talented, able to play instruments and sing better than anyone else I have ever heard. When the Bible said to make a joyful noise, she really took it to heart.

If ever anyone made a joyful noise, it was Phyllis.

Now, even though we grew up in a small Southern town where country music could be heard playing on the radios in just about every gas station, store and waiting room in town, my taste in music always leaned to rock 'n' roll, jazz, the blues. I was familiar with the country stars and hits of the previous generation, but I didn't really follow them.

What I learned of the country music of my day I learned from Phyllis. In fact, I will always remember one hot summer evening after we graduated from high school when we drove, along with a classmate named Ellen, from Conway to Pine Bluff to see Willie Nelson and Emmylou Harris in concert.

I don't know how Phyllis felt about the country performers who came along later in her life. We never discussed, for example, Garth Brooks, who may be one of the most influential country performers of the last 20 years.

Now, I'm not saying that I am — or ever have been — a Garth Brooks fan. He burst onto the scene in 1989, the year after I left Arkansas, and then, in April of 1990, released as a single (at a time when vinyl albums and 45–rpm singles were still being produced and sold) what has come to be regarded as his signature song, "The Dance."

In the 20 years that have passed, I'm sure many people have drawn comfort from the words of the song — which could be interpreted as a tribute to a passionate love affair that has come to an end but has always seemed to me to be about accepting the death of someone to whom you are close.

Hindsight, as just about anyone will tell you, is 20/20. And, when I think of Phyllis these days, I am reminded of the words of Brooks' song.

I really am glad that I didn't know how or when — or why — Phyllis' life story would end. For that matter, I'm glad I wasn't aware of just how serious her condition was in the last month she was in the hospital. There was nothing I could have done — except hope and pray. And there were already plenty of people doing that, I imagine. Would one more person hoping and praying have tipped the scales and permitted Phyllis to recover? I don't know.

Our lives really are better left to chance. On a note Phyllis wrote about herself on Facebook last year, she said, in response to a question, that she would like to know in advance the day of her death — if such a thing was possible. But, if what people say of God is true, it seems enough to me that God knows when everyone will die. That is knowledge that I do not want or need.

When someone you care about dies, there is always, it seems to me, a tendency to wish you had known ahead of time so you could say your goodbyes. But I've been in the position where I knew someone I cared about was dying and I was probably seeing that person for the last time — and yet, I could never bring myself to say the things I wanted to say.

On those occasions, my friends were dying of cancer or some other disease, and maybe the very act of saying "goodbye" seemed like giving up. That is something I have never been prepared to do.

Afterward, I regretted not saying it — but I still prefer not to know when death is going to come to me or anyone else. If it's going to come as a shock, let it come as a shock. The pain will wear off eventually. Guess it beats knowing that you or someone you love has three days — or three hours — left. What would you do with the time that remained?

And, while I sure could have missed this pain, that would have meant that I'd have had to miss the dance. Knowing Phyllis was a real kick. I'm sorry for those who never had that pleasure. I'm sorry she's gone. I hope we'll see each other again. I'm glad she was in my life.

My life wouldn't have been nearly as rich if Phyllis hadn't passed my way.

For a Friend

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As you may have noticed, I like posting videos with my blog posts. I write three blogs — this one, as well as a blog about current events/history and a blog about sports. And I've posted videos on each one.

Most of the time, I prefer to post videos on my blogs when they are relevant to something I am writing about — an anniversary of some kind, the birthday or death of someone famous, something like that.

I like posting videos, mainly because it is my way of sharing something that is meaningful to me with my readers. And I especially like doing it here, because this is my entertainment blog.

Well, this evening I was chatting with an old friend of mine on Facebook, and we were reminiscing about our high school days. She's been encouraging me because I have been unemployed for quite awhile, but there may be some light at the end of the tunnel for me, after all. I was asked to come in to interview on Thursday for a job as a music editor for a local online news website. She told me that she thinks this interview is the start of good things for me, and I really want to believe that is true.

Of all the people I knew in high school, she was probably the most trustworthy.

My friend was an accomplished musician when we knew each other in high school, and I visited her many times in her home. On one of those occasions, she introduced me to the recordings of Maynard Ferguson. We talked a little about him tonight.

Ferguson is deceased now. As a matter of fact, one week from Sunday will be the third anniversary of his death. I suppose I could have waited until then to post this video. But I wanted to take this opportunity to share a video of him performing now.

Because he isn't performing just any song in the attached video clip. He's performing one of the first songs my friend played for me all those years ago.

And I want this song to be in my head when I go in for my interview.

It's symbolic, I suppose. But it's also a damn fine rendition of "Gonna Fly Now," the theme from the 1976 movie "Rocky," the story of an underdog, seemingly past–his–prime boxer who gets a shot at the heavyweight title and almost pulls it off.

Thanks, Phyllis. It's good to have you in my corner.